


Break Me Down (Build Me Up)

by Little_Winchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Another Era, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - War, Angel Sam, Bottom Sam, Demon Dean, Every thing here is non-con, Evil Dean, Exhibitionism, Facials, For now I mean, Hand Feeding, Handcuffs, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mean Dean, Might change that, Non-Sexual Flogging, Piercings, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam Whump, Shotgunning, Slave Sam, Slavery, Strangulation, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Top Dean, Voyeurism, Weed, breath play, but not really, it’s more like, like seriously though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13453731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Winchester/pseuds/Little_Winchester
Summary: Sam's knees hit the mud with a thump, and anger roiled in his eyes.Sam's back bounced off the bed, and his hope shattered.Sam curled up by Dean's side, and looked utterly broken.***Sam was a Captain in Eden's army, young and proud and ready to bleed for his country, and then Dean rolled in like a hurricane. He destroyed everything Sam had ever built for himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this fic is fucked up. Heed the warnings, and the tags

  
  
  
The battle field of Sacris Amissa was beautiful, in a twisted sort of way. Dusk was beginning to cast its long fingers on the muddied land, painting the spilled blood black and purple. Corpses strewed the area, post-skirmish looters picking their way through the sodden uniforms, regardless of their color; demon and angel cadavers alike were desecrated, robbed of tiny metal trinkets and buttons and a lover's bracelet and a mother's ring. Dean didn't care; the real prize was right before him, in the shape of roughly half a dozen captured angelic warriors.

They had collapsed their wings into their backs, and inky markings could be seen along exposed backs and arms and even collarbones, like the solitary markings of a seagull's feet on an empty beach. The angels were mesmerizing in their defeat; one, a buzz cut woman with with dark eyes, glared at him even on her knees, letting him know, _daring_ to make him realize that she would not be beaten; she would not be broken. Two angels over, there was a man with bruises kissing his eyes and blood dribbling from his mouth and broken nose; his eyes burned a brand into Dean's own, and it made his victory all the sweeter.

The last angel to be brought down was still struggling against his captors; his wings alone were stirring up a storm, and the demons' harsh words and biting steel would not tame him. He bucked wildly against his captors, throwing himself at one and then the other to unbalance them. Demons were inherently stronger; angels were faster. Where he would run to if he managed to escape, what with the battlefield being absolutely swarmed with demons, Dean didn't know. He supposed that some things were just ingrained into one's nature, and the urge to fight back seemed to have been etched into the back of this one's skull. 

"Stop fighting," Dean said coldly, "or I'll have those pretty wings of yours chopped off."

The angel stilled momentarily, and then proceeded to kick the nearest demon's stomach in; they stumbled back, and the angel whirled on the remaining demon, but before he could act, Dean was behind him, a bone dagger whispering against the angel's fluttering carotid. "I told you," Dean hissed, "to stop."

"Fuck you," the angel snarled, but he kept still; survival instinct trumps pride.

"Here's how it's gonna be," Dean said smoothly, running a finger down the spine of a feather. "You keep still, we put chains on you, and none of your buddies lose their legs. Or wings. Or lives. Understood?"

The angel complied, stone faced and with his hands shaking in barely restrained anger all the way through, and something deep inside Dean purred; submission was all the more beautiful when it wasn't beat out of them, when they kneeled out of their own free will.

Dean chose to ignore the assorted swords poised at multiple angel's limbs.

"Good little Captain," he purred, and the angel stiffened up; Dean had seen him imparting orders through the stormy battle, his sword drenched in red as he screamed for his soldiers to keep fighting and pushing forward, eyes grim and jawline harsh, and he had known then that he would not be letting this one go.

"Take them to Harpe's Edge Keep," Dean commanded, and the angels were dragged off, kicking and screaming like their lives depended on it, as if their savior would suddenly appear from within the turmoil and save them all.

They had no such luck, and still, they hoped.

"And take care of this one," he added, and threaded his finger's through the stubborn angel's hair at his growl. "I'm keeping him."

Dean hooked his other hand around the taut chain connecting the angel's wrists. "What's your name, pretty?" He murmured, and the angel's expression turned thunderous. He spat at Dean's feet.

Dean smashed the angel's face into the dirt and yanked him back out again. "Tell me your name," he ordered quietly. Dean's eyes promised nothing but pain if his rules weren't followed.

"Screw you," the angel replied, scathingly.

"Meg!" Dean roared. "We don't need that angel of yours. Make him _bleed_."

The grin Meg returned was feral. Her scimitar sang as she drew it out of her scabbard, as weightless as a wisp of smoke. She ran its fine edge along the angel's throat, light as a kiss, and then drew it back and painted a garish red close across his chest.

The angel's consequent scream rang like a bell across the battlefield.

"Sam!" The stubborn angel hissed, as if it physically hurt him to give his name up. The beast inside of Dean practically drooled at the sliver of vulnerability that cut through the angel's face. "I'm Sam, alright?" He whispered. "Sam Campbell."

"Well done," Dean praised. "Don't kill him just yet, Meg. Sammy over here decided to cooperate, and we reward good behaviour over here, don't we?"

"Right you are, General," Meg quipped, and went back to dragging her own angel through sludge.

"We'll treat you well if you're good," Dean said earnestly. He smirked, cupped Sam's face and dug a thumb in his cheek when he tried to bite back. "Will you stop fighting?"

Sam's glare could rival the midmorning sun's.

Dean laughed, loudly. Sam's brow creased, apparently confused by his reaction, and Dean couldn't help but chuckle. 

"I bet you wouldn't have it any other way," Dean mused, and kissed him.

By the time Sam reared back, Dean was already gone.

 

* * *

The next time Dean saw Sam, the angel was piled up on top of his bed, clothes caked with blood from the battle and mud from his surrender. Exhaustion had likely chastised Sam's sea-deep determination on the journey to Harpe, but he slumbered fitfully; quiet whimpers fell from his parted lips, and his brow was furrowed.

Dean shook him awake.

"What the fu-" Sam was already slamming his fists into Dean's nose before he was fully conscious, and there was not a single ounce of regret on his face when realization took him aside and explained the situation.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Dean said, and he imagined his nickname was not all that off; Sam had the hints of dimples dotting his cheeks, and Dean thought that his smile was probably something to truly behold.

"Why am I here?" Sam said in lieu of being even the slightest bit polite. Dean didn't take it to heart.

"Because I wanted you to be." He grabbed Sam's chained wrists and dragged him to the bathroom. "You caught my eye," Dean explained.

Sam tried to tug his hands away, and Dean let him go once the lock on the door had been flipped. He gestured at the toilet and at the bathtub. "Which do you want to do first?"

"What?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I sincerely don't think you're that thick, Sam," he drawled, feeling a vindictive sort of pleasure at the angel's blatant dislike for the use of his name. "Your inability to understand simple bodily functions concerns me, though." Sam seethed. "Which do you want first?"

Sam huffed. "All I _want,"_ he snarled, "is for you to take these cuffs off and let me go. I'll even settle for you showing me to the door. I'll figure the cuffs out myself."

Dean pretended to not have heard Sam. "Toilet it is. Get to it."

"Screw you. _No_."

Dean's punch came out of nowhere, and it left Sam feeling like the floor was spinning under his feet. Dean grabbed his hair and hauled him towards the toilet, before yanking down his pants and gesturing at the porcelain bowl. "You can either do this yourself or I'll hold you through it," Dean said with a sneer. "Take your pick."

Dean avoided having his nose broken out of sheer luck, but his ribs would be painted purple tomorrow. He gripped Sam's neck like the reins of an unruly horse and growled in his ear as Sam wheezed, his body begging for oxygen.

Sam was the antithesis of obedience, even under the threat of strangulation, and Dean ended up holding him through it.

Then came the bath. Sam tried to make a break for the door as soon as Dean's back was turned, but Dean plowed into him like a linebacker and Sam's jaw hit the floor with a rather unpleasant 'clack'. He seemed to be rather unwilling to stand up at all after that.

Silently, Dean thanked the prim bastard who had had this Keep built; there was a fully functional water system integrated into the structure of the Keep, rather advanced for its time, and hot water gushed from the copper pipes without the slightest hesitance. The tub was also more of a jacuzzi than anything else, exuberantly large, and once again, bless that buried bastard. Steam puffed up from the crystalline surface, lending thought to its temperature.

Dean stripped himself and then Sam with minimal fighting from his part, as he was probably still dazed from the abuse his body had been subjected to. Sam's own goddamn fault, really.

Dean settled into the marble tub and dragged Sam into the vee of his legs, quieting down his mayfly-short resistance with a hand around his neck. Dean found himself entranced with the way Sam just collapsed, like a marionette sans strings or a felled block tower, as Dean applied pressure to his throat. He could feel Sam's chest heaving against his, the way his heart beat a tattoo into the skin under the palm of his hand, and he marveled at how he held the keys to Sam's life in his hands; his breath in one and his heart in the other. His to touch. His to hold.

His to crush.

"Shush, sweetheart, you're okay," Dean cooed into Sam's neck. Tiny gasps poured from his lips, and Dean fingered at his pulse, felt it jackrabbit with fear and hurry, trying to make up for those long minutes of anoxia. "Just stop fighting me, darling," Dean whispered, and then he wrapped his arms around Sam's shoulders and shoved him under.

Dean kept Sam there for just under fifteen seconds, but Sam's thrashing did not let up throughout at all. Rather, it just intensified, Sam's arm and legs jerking out of the water spastically.

Dean pulled him back out smoothly, and Sam simply melted into his chest, rivulets of water trickling down his face and off his jaw as he hiccuped. Dean nosed at his hair, darkened by the water, and reached for one of the bottles lining the rim of the tub. The one he picked gave off a subtle lavender scent, lulling and familiar. He spilled some on Sam's hair, scrubbed thoroughly, and dunked him again to clear off the spuds. Then, Dean reached for a different bottle, a relic from his time in the Eastern country. He poured a stream of it onto his hands, and methodically washed every inch of Sam's muscled body, cataloguing every curve and dip and mole and freckle, from the birthmark nestled under Sam's scapula to the dark marks his hidden wings left behind to his damp treasure trail. He took special notice of the whine Sam made when Dean circled his cock with a lazy finger and of his surprised whimper when he brushed his finger tips over his taint and hole, before moving on. He liked those sounds, even though he wasn't particularly fond of the way Sam's hands tried to dissuade him when approaching his groin. "Just let me take care of you, sweetheart," he whispered, and the hand at Sam's neck squeezed gently. Sam's body locked up anyway, and Dean wondered how long it would take before Sam instinctually froze up with every brush at his throat. He considered collaring Sam when that time came, and pictured licking the anxiety-based sweat off those chiseled muscles of his.

He stuck a pin in those thoughts. They were for another day. Today was for getting high off euphoria, Sam's body, and possibly opium.

"Do you know my name, sweetheart?"

Sam's head lolled on his shoulder. "Sure. Everyone knows your name in Eden." His entire body seemed to sag. 

Dean grinned. His careful balance between bloodthirst and ice-cold calculation on the battlefield was what had caused him to rise so rapidly through the ranks of Cavum, and had apparently made him infamous in neighboring countries too.

"Good," he mused. He tapped his fingers on Sam's chest in time with his heart beat, and considered what to do next with his prize.

Dean pushed Sam gently off him, rearranged his body so that they were facing each other. Sam felt heavy, a solid weight straddling his thighs, but Dean didn't mind; he liked seeing Sam's face, how it really looked beneath all the blood and grime.

"Touch me," Dean said softly, and his broken glass voice paired with the hand ghosting over his half-mast dick left no shadow of a doubt as to what he was referring to.

Sam's face was cast in shadows of light and hatred. "No."

Dean's free hand shot out to wrap vice-tight around Sam's throat. "You don't get to refuse," he snarled. "So touch me, darling, or I might decide that you don't need those pretty hands of yours after all."

Dean let Sam struggle against his grip for twenty seconds before he let go, and the widening of Sam's eyes as he realized there was no escape from the iron clamp of Dean's fingers made it all the more satisfying. Sam crumpled into Dean's chest as soon as he removed his hand, making these little gasps and high whistle-like sounds as he exhaled that were like the finest music to Dean's ears. Sam probably hadn't even realized that his bound hands were gripping Dean's thigh tightly enough to bruise.

By the time Sam had recovered, Dean was steadily pumping his hand around his dick. He unclasped Sam's fingers from his leg and drew them gently to his hardened member, wrapping them just above where his own hand was. Sam looked like would rather be anywhere else, and his cheeks had lit up as soon as he touched Dean's dick, but he didn't move away. Dean smiled at him softly, pleased with Sam's shaky compliance.

"There we go, darling. Not so hard, was it?"

"Don't call me that."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What, _darling_ , you don't like my pet names?" There was an undertone of danger in his voice.

"No." It came out softly, almost a whisper, but no less vicious than if it had been a scream.

Dean threaded his fingers through the hair above Sam's nape, and yanked him close. "You don't have to like them, Sam." With his other hand, he traced the ink-like patterns on Sam's shoulders. "You don't have to like anything I do, in fact." But... Dean hoped that some day, one day, Sam would beg for his presence, for his touch... for his love, even. "You just need to look pretty, and do what I say." He kissed Sam's forehead. "And I say, _jerk me off_."

Sam closed his eyes. It was hard to tell if the wetness at his eyes were tears of frustration or simply water sluicing out of his hair. His hands were trembling, but he choppily slid them up to the tip and then down again, repeating the movement with growing fluidity. He twisted his hands on the upstroke ever so often and thumbed at the slit whenever the angle was favorable, and he had Dean painting the water white within minutes.

Sam jerked his hands away from Dean's dick like it burned. Dean contemplated the possibility of making him choke on his dick for not stroking him through the orgasm, but his own hand made do, and after all, Sam was still learning. Rather reluctantly, truth be told.

Dean sighed. Sam was leaning away from him, as if trying to evade the white streaks moving sluggishly through the water, and was bracing himself on the lip of the tub; the chain between his wrists made it awkward enough that Sam was sliding off his lap.

"You can get out now," Dean said, and Sam scrambled his way over the rim. It was in no way graceful, and yet Dean found his gaze drawn to the flex of Sam's muscles, the roll of tan skin as he plucked a towel off the nearest hook. "I didn't say you could touch those," Dean said, reaching over to pull the plug. The water drained away along with the bathroom's heat, but Sam stood tall and proud despite his lack of warmth and modesty; the towels tended to be a tight fit on Dean, and they were even worse on Sam. Or better, he supposed.

Sam scowled at him in response. "You dragged me into the water, the least you can do is dry me up." His hands shook; from either cold or perhaps as an involuntary reaction of fear, of panic. Dean didn't know.

The corners of Dean's lips tugged upwards. "You're a cheeky one, I'll give you that, he said as his eyes raked up and down Sam's figure. He tilted his head. "Where do you think it's going to get you?"

Sam, who had been bending over to reach for his soiled clothes, stilled. He shook his head, as if to bat away Dean's question, and continued to gather up his clothes. Dean waited until he was by the door, and then he was behind him, hands at Sam's hipbones, breath at his nape. "You can't leave," he whispered.

Sam didn't respond.

 

* * *

 

The first night, Sam had tried to escape through Dean's cracked-open window. Dean had fisted a hand around Sam's throat and yanked him back, furious at Sam's open rebellion. He'd torn the clothes Sam had donned - his own clothes, he realized later, probably stolen from his wardrobe bare seconds before Sam's attempted escape, and pulled on as we well as he was able to with bound hands - and thrown him back on the bed. He'd pressed down long and hard enough on Sam's esophagus to leave him woozy and weak, and then tied his arms to the headboard and his ankles to the opposing bedposts, ass up. He'd grabbed a pen and gently traced two paths, both starting in between where Sam's wings would unfold from and ending parallel to the dimples in his lower back. 

Then, he reached for a black case he'd stored in his drawer, in anticipation of being able to do this with someone, of having the power to mark someone further than on their skin; the slim needles slid neatly beneath the marked and sanitized areas, and a series of silver hoops followed. "Don't you dare try to leave me again," Dean had whispered as he slipped the last one in.

Tiny beads of blood bloomed at Sam's back, and Dean swiped his finger at one and popped it in his mouth, savoring the curious tang. Perhaps his decision had been rather brash; after the battle of Sacris, he'd immediately begun crafting a plan to slowly wear down Sam's will, to be able to own him entirely, and he'd decided to leave the piercings for a later date. Sam's attitude, however, and the unabashed insolence found in his foiled getaway plan had struck a nerve.

Sam was _Dean's_. He couldn't disappear just like that - he'd barely known the angel for a day, and yet, he knew he'd hunt his precious angel to the ends of the earth if he had to.

Dean really hoped he wouldn't ever have to.

It was only then that Dean noticed that Sam had ceased all movement, and he stroked at Sam's spine, too soft. Too tender. "Do you know what those are, darling?"

"P-piercings?" Sam stuttered. He was probably still recovering from the curveball the night had turned out to be, and was likely very tired now that the adrenalin rush from his and Dean's shock-sharp fight had worn off.

"Yeah." Dean trailed a black ribbon along Sam's neck and back, enjoying the play of muscles under the golden candlelight. "And this?"

"A whip?"

Dean had to admire the steel in Sam's voice, even when the prospect of such an instrument clearly terrified him.

"No, Sam, not at all," he assured after a few seconds of honey-thick silence. "It's just a ribbon." A simple black ribbon, with silver tassels at the ends. His house colours, in fact.

Dean left the ribbon draped on Sam's neck, likely tickling him, as he left to prepare a bowl of saline; Sam seemed to be making quick work on the ropes tying him to the wooden bed frame upon his return, but Dean stilled him with a squeeze to his neck. "Leave that alone. I need to treat your piercings."

Dean doused each pinprick with a stream of salt water which made Sam hiss, snake-like, before wiping it all down with a clean rag. 

"See?" Dean sighed into the night as he tugged on a single hoop. Sam's breath hitched, and his fists clenched with the effort of not making a single sound. "I told you, Sammy, that we rewarded good behaviour. The opposite applies to misbehaving." He plucked at a different ring, this one higher up. Sam whined, low in his throat.

"I want to mark you, Sam," Dean breathed as the ribbon whispered against Sam's skin, serpent-like. It wove through all the hoops in a pretty cross-hatch pattern, like a corset, and wound up in a bow to tie up the loose ends. He smeared his palms along Sam's ass-cheeks and spread them apart, thumbing at the rosy pucker. "I want to fuck you wearing my marks, I want the goddamn world to know you're mine."

"Dean," Sam said, low and frantic. A warning, If he'd been in the position to make one. "Dean, don't."

Dean hummed and reached for a clay flask, and he uncorked it with his teeth. He set it at the small of Sam's back "Do you have any idea how beautiful your name sounds on my lips?" He asked.

Dean shimmied back to rest on Sam's straining thighs. He tugged at the ribbon and squeezed Sam's ass, kneading it gently, relishing in the way Sam's body froze. It made the muscles under Dean's palms firmer, more defined. 

Sam was gorgeous.

Dean slathered his fingers with the cool oil from the flask, and slid them down the crack of Sam's ass, ignoring Sam's protests. "Dean, stop. You can't do this-"

Dean's first finger slipped in, and it made Sam choke on his words. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do, darling. I own you," he said, and sucked a bruise into Sam's shoulder blade, just because he could. He pumped his forefinger in and out of Sam, slowly, relishing the slow drag of resistance. He added a second one, and Sam's answering groan made the beast inside him very, very happy.

There were bruises kissing the from of Sam's throat. Dean knew that he had been rather rough with Sam before, but Dean just couldn't help it- Sam was his blank canvas, his clean slate, and Dean couldn't keep his hands off him. 

And anyway, Dean couldn't just leave Sam's nape bare, could he?

Dean bit down, hard, and set about licking the area as though to soothe it. Sam nearly screamed. Dean set upon the flesh before him like a starving man, leaving behind blotches of red and purple even as his fingers scissored inside Sam. 

When Dean felt that Sam was taking three fingers with sufficient ease, he slid them out of his ass, and Sam's body poured into the mattress like a high-tension wire across his back had been cut.

"You're done, right?" Sam asked. His voice was as lost as his innocence, and it sounded broken. "You'll leave me alone now."

Dean shook his head, even though Sam couldn't see it. "Oh sweetheart," he murmured, and he tapped the head of his dick against Sam's hole. He drizzled more oil on it, and pushed in. "We've only just begun." 

"No," Sam had gasped, a delicious horror in his voice which Dean couldn't help but shiver at. Sam raised himself as well as he could, perhaps trying to buck Dean off - a hard enough feat without his limbs bound to the bed, and absolutely nothing about the situation was favorable for Sam.

Dean rubbed Sam's skin, gently shushing him. "It's alright, Sammy," he said as he draped himself over Sam's back. Sam yelped at the pressure it put on his piercings, tugging at the reddened skin as he shifted. 

"Dean-" Sam started, but then Dean circled his hips, grinding them into Sam, and the little gasp he let out completely drowned out anything else he was going to say.

Dean fucked Sam slowly, pumping his hips in and out with utmost softness. Sam's breathing was riddled with whimpers and moans, but Dean went as slow as he could manage. He'd hurt Sam enough, for tonight, and there would be plenty of time to be rough later. 

Dean came with a groan, and he peppered Sam's shoulder's with kisses, soft fingers trailing down Sam's sides. "What did you learn today, darling?" 

Sam's voice came out warbled. "That you're a fucking _prick,_ " he hissed. He then added a few choice words in an Enochian dialect that Dean wasn't familiar with, but were probably variations of 'son of a bitch' and 'asshole'.

Dean laughed. There were few things that could ruin his post-orgasm glow. "Be nice, Sam, and I might let you come." He'd hitched Sam's hips up, hands trailing along like spiders, and it seemed that his slower, sweeter brand of lovemaking had managed to coax Sam into semi-hardness.

"Don't!" Sam grunted, tugging desperately at his bonds. "Don't touch me."

Dean sighed, but he moved his hand away. He set about undoing all bonds tying Sam down, fingers ghosting over unmarred skin, but left the one at his right ankle, if perhaps with slightly more give, as insurance. He cleaned both Sam and himself up, but he didn't touch Sam's reddened cock; in fact, if Sam didn't want to be touched, he wouldn't be allowed to come at all.

Sam just didn't know that yet.

"First," Dean said as he unwound the black ribbon from Sam's back, its tapered end lapping at the skin like thirsty dogs at the riverside, "I taught you that you were mine, and that you'd do damned well in remembering that. Second," he continued, and he wrapped thick fingers around Sam's neck, tightening them when Sam tried to speak, "I showed you exactly what I want from you, and that you can find pleasure in pain. Or, at least, my own pleasure from your pain. And third," his breath tickled Sam's ear. "This, I'm telling you now. If you ever try to escape again, I'll destroy you, every single angel in this Keep, and then in Eden. Got it?"

Sam didn't answer. His eyes looked damp, but he buried his face in his forearms before Dean could really figure out whether he was crying or not.

Dean killed the faint flames dancing above the candles strewn around the room with a flick of his hand, and then curled up next to Sam, enjoying the warmth of another body in his bed.

"Fuck you," Sam whispered. "Fuck you and your demons and your fucked up brain. I'm getting out of here."

Dean tugged on one of the piercings, just on the wrong side of painful. "Oh, precious, keep hoping if you want to. But me?" Dean nuzzled at Sam's neck. "I'm never going to let you go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I could think of while writing the bath scene was "Two bros chilling in a hot tub five feet apart 'cause they're not gay" but like... sike you thought.  
> Feedback, y'all. It sates the dragon's hunger.  
> Tell me if you want more, I guess. I have another chapter written.  
> Edit: just a couple of corrections and edits.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
Dean liked taking Sam on all fours.

He also liked fucking him until the gasps pouring out of his mouth sounded strained and virginal, and painting his body in the permanent pattern of his finger tips.

Sam, on the other hand, liked to read.

Dean had discovered this on the third day of Sam's captivity, when he finally took pity on his bedmate and left him a stack of dog-eared books by the window, if only as an offer of something to do while Dean was tending to his land's business.

He'd picked the books from his own personal stash, a motely of adventure novellas and curious history tomes that Dean had left with their spines aching and their pages still holding the imprints of his thumbs.

Sam was already on the second book - a hefty number detailing the journey of one honor-plagued hero or another - by the time he came back.

"You like reading," Dean noted.

Sam hummed his assent.

Dean didn't forget. Sam didn't forget. After wringing a cascade of whorehouse-worthy noises from Sam - and once again leaving him high and dry - Sam had settled into what was now 'his' side of the bed and murmured a short retelling of Quixote to himself, and Dean simultaneously pretended not to hear and commended himself for having made such a brilliant decision.

* * *

"I'll make you a deal," Dean said a month later. They were panting on the silk sheets, covered by a film of sweat brought about by the growing heat and Dean's rather enthusiastic bout of fucking. His hand skated on Sam's chest, even as Sam flinched away. Every movement made the chain around his ankle - a recent addition which allowed for increased mobility and security - clink and whisper on the bed sheets.

"What is it?" Sam asked, trying to shoo Dean's fingers from his peaked nipples.

His faux-modesty was adorable. Dean hooked a muscled thigh over Sam's waist and swung himself over to straddle his angel. "I have a library. Did you know that?" Dean trailed a finger from his stomach - Sam still worked out during his time alone, apparently unwilling to lose his fit shape, and the feeling of hardened muscle put a smile on his lips- to his chest, where he pawed and squeezed at Sam's nipples until they were strawberry red, and up to Sam's slender throat. Sam swallowed.

"I figured," Sam murmured, eyes flicking down as if trying to gauge the path of his finger.

Dean leaned down and bit on a nipple, mouthing and bruising his way up. "I want you," Dean breathed against Sam's ear, nipping at it when he squirmed. "To come with me, tomorrow. Harpe has its own little court, and I want you there. Between my legs." He snaked a hand down to scratch at the thatch of hair above Sam's dick. "The day after that, I'll let you spend as much time as you want in the library, until I call you to my room."

Dean drew back. He expected immediate agreement, maybe even a grin of excitement, but Sam's face was contorted into a mask of fury, his lips curled into sneer. Ire chased the red on his cheeks, blushing his face with anger.

"If it weren't for you," Sam snarled, "I wouldn't have to fucking sell you favors to read. If it weren't for _you_ ," Sam shoved at Dean's chest hard enough to make him slide completely off, "I'd be free. So screw you. I'm not going to be paraded like some peacock or a prized dog."

Dean slapped him. "Show me some fucking respect," he sneered. "I own you, and I'll do whatever the fuck I want to." He slapped Sam again, his head snapping back from the blow. "Understood?" He hissed, grasping Sam's jaw, and then Sam tore back and lunged.

They hit the floor with a thump, Dean wheezing as the air fled his lungs. Sam had landed on top of him, on all fours, caging him in. Dean stayed hare-still for a split second, regaining his breath, and then Sam collapsed on his stomach, jolting him.

Dean went for the throat.

Sam seemed to expect that of him by now, and he dodged Dean's hands, viper-fast. He retaliated by slamming Dean's head into the carpeted floor, hard enough to make his ears ring. Sam repeated the motion and Dean surged forward on the down thrust, burying his fist in Sam's stomach.

Sam hissed in pain and doubled over, but his fist went flying before Dean could throw him off; he smashed the heel of his hand into Dean's nose and took off, towards...

Ah. Towards Dean's _sword_ , which he had neglected to leave in an outlying chamber and instead dumped alongside his clothes by the mirror.

Sam barreled across the room, nearly tripping over in his haste. The sword was laying carelessly in its scabbard, and Sam pounced on it.

He would have made it, if not for the chain.

The metal links coiling behind his ankle suddenly puled taut, and Sam found himself flat on the floor, extended arms barely inches away from the tanned leather of the scabbard. _Fuck_. He scrabbled forwards, fingers dusting the leather sheath a bare second before Dean yanked on the chain again, with all his strength, dragging him back like an unruly dog. Sam writhed and kicked and swore, but Dean was unrelenting, implacable, and he was back at the foot of the bed in a blink of an eye.

Dean caught his wrist in an iron grip and placed his foot on Sam's neck. "Stay _fucking_ still, Sam, and I might go easy on you," he growled, and he applied more pressure on Sam's neck when he tried to respond. He caught Sam's flailing hand and bound his wrists with torn material, and it bit into Sam's skin like thorns. Dean hauled him up, so that they were faced to face, and buried a hand in Sam's hair. "Don't move unless I tell you to," he snarled.

There was a bruise flowering around Dean's nose, Sam could see. It was red and slightly inflamed, nothing that wouldn't heal shortly.

That wasn't what Sam was worried about.

Dean wound the chain around the bed post several times and tied Sam's wrists higher up on the four poster. The position was unfamiliar but not uncomfortable, and Sam found himself pressing his forehead into the cool wood in front of him. He tried to steady his labored breathing, but it was like trying to stay dry in a thunderstorm.

And then, Dean left.

He came back with his fists clenched tight and his eyes doused in flames, holding a black strip of silk in one hand and a whip in the other.

Sam bit his tongue. He wouldn't beg.

"Sam," Dean said, quietly. He sounded deathly calm, and Sam wasn't sure that it was preferable to the boiling rage of earlier. "How did you know that my sword was in the room?"

Was this a trick question? "I saw you leaving it while you undressed, genius," Sam said, and considered that maybe sassing a man currently holding a whip was not among the brightest ideas.

"Watch it," Dean said sharply, tugging at Sam's hair. Then, softer, "You _saw_ it." Dean traced the contours of Sam's back, plucked at a couple of the rings like lyre strings. He'd taken out most of the rings, leaving in only six at the bottom; three on each side. They were useful when it came to manhandling Sam.

"Yeah." Sam trembled, like a leaf in a monsoon.

"So if you hadn't seen it," Dean continued, "you wouldn't have tried to fight me for it?"

Sam let his silence speak for itself.

Dean nodded, mostly for his own benefit; Sam could only catch the slightest movements out of the corner of his eye. "You'll understand why I'm doing this, then."

The silk, Dean tied around Sam's eyes, smothering his sight.

The whip descended, and the first line of fire broke on Sam's back.

* * *

The other angels had been put to work.

They acted as servants and farm-hands and blacksmiths and cooks, a patchwork of jobs which left them worn out at the eve of each day, with only scraps of left over food and straw beds to look forward to. They scurried around with thick metal collars, dark and heavy, marking them as angel, as enemy, as other - as less. Jeers were thrown at them wherever they went, some demons going as far as to beat them bloody, just to see how much their bodies could take.

Castiel hated it.

Today, he was stepping in as a cleaner of sorts - it was his job to tidy up after the court-goers, maintaining the main hall squeaky clean, and the demons weren't making it particularly easy for him. He was also then to serve at the feast, darting back and forth between the kitchen and the mess hall with platters laden with steaming and fragrant dishes, which he was not allowed to touch - even one gulp of the heavenly mushroom stew was not worth the resulting punishment.

Castiel, and all the other angels, had learned that early on, courtesy of Ariel.

Her one remaining hand still shook when she brought the pitiful morsels they were granted to her mouth.

The manacles wrapping around Castiel's ankles murmured against the stone floor as he swept away the dirt, marking his presence even when he wished to stay hidden and acting as cool counterpoints to the harness strapped to his back; a strange metal and leather contraption designed to keep his wings from manifesting. He felt as if there were eyes tracking his every movement, and it made him bristle will involuntary anxiety. He sought out Raziel's wary eyes, all the way on the other side of the room, and they nodded to each other, a silent promise of support, to make it through the day.

That was when Dean Winchester barged in. His entrance sent silence fluttering through the room for a mere second as his court took him in, drinking in the powerful image he made with his cape draped on his shoulders and his sword hanging by his side.

Trailing behind him, wrists chained, dressed in scant, loose pants, was...

_Oh. Oh, no._

Winchester had Captain Campbell - Sam, as Castiel had eventually come to know him as - in chains, a strip of black around his eyes. He stumbled on as he struggled against Dean, yanking back against his grip, but he stopped abruptly when he became aware of the demons crowding the court. A set of manacles bound his ankles together, and Dean's hand on the chain between his wrists guided him trough the room. His throat was mottled with purple, all the way down to he first markings of Sam's hidden wings, and as he was led on, Castiel could see two lines of silver hoops snaking down his back, interwoven by a pretty ribbon. The flesh above them, though, was streaked through with red dashes, likely recent.

Castiel's shoulders suddenly felt very, very heavy.

The crowd parted before Winchester like the sea, rushing back and forth, following the moon's orders. They openly gawked at Sam, admiring what had been done to the proud angel. whispers danced across the room, and when Winchester finally settled into his throne, the hall was abuzz with the voices of the frivolous and the concerned.

The court fell silent once again when Dean spoke. "Kneel," he said, and Sam's body went tense. He didn't move; he couldn't move, and Castiel was as paralyzed as he was.

"Kneel," Dean insisted, one hand on Sam's wrist and the other on the arm of his throne.

Sam still seemed unwilling to comply, and Dean guided his head down, brushed back his hair and whispered something in his ear.

Sam's shoulders sagged. He waited for barely a second before slowly kneeling down, his hands grasping at Dean's leg for balance.

Sam was blindfolded, and beaten, and chained, and he kneeled with his head held high, as if he still had something to prove.

Castle wanted to salute him, to praise him for his bravery and perseverance, but he knew that his Captain wouldn't see it, and settled for instead nodding to Ramiel.

The court churned around again as if started up by clockwork, and Castiel turned away.

He had work to do.

* * *

_There are two other angels in the room. If you don't kneel, I'll just get them to do it instead. Break out the whip, too._

Dean's breath had tickled Sam's ear, and he went to his knees shakily, aware of the picture he made; bound, blindfolded, and apparently submissive to Dean.

The cold stone was unforgiving on his legs, and he shifted restlessly, boredom and anxiety eating away at him; he knew the room was crowded, but the cloud of murmurs hung low in the air, muffling and muddling and Sam had the sick sense that everyone was staring at him. His nape prickled, and he moved yet again, digging his nails from out of Dean's thigh, organizing his scattered, stress-riddled thoughts

Sam made it his priority to keep his chin up. He plucked at nearby conversations, trying to gauge what was going on at Harpe by glueing together the spilt words he caught. Unfortunately, conversation had the annoying habit of turning to him more often than not, he tried to block them out, block them all out, picturing cotton stuffing his ears. There were also a seemingly unending line of men coming to Dean about their troubles; mundane and trivial, the lot of them, but their stories were safe. They didn't hurt; they didn't make him yearn for what had been brutally taken away from him

He must have made some sort of noise, because Dean's hand was suddenly carding through his hair, and he was shushing him softly, even as the latest woe-dipped farmer bowed and bustled off. "You're doing great, Sammy," he murmured, almost warmly. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but thick fingers were shoved inside his mouth, snuffing out the words. Sam bit down, hard, until blood spurted between his teeth, his previous warnings evaporating like mist. _Don't fight me, Sam. Whips and breath games are just the tip of the iceberg._

A calloused palm wrapped around  his neck, pressing, holding, choking, and he let go of the fingers, spitting out Dean's blood. It splattered _drip-drip-drip_ against the rough hewn floor, and Sam wanted to look at it; he wanted to see Dean _bleed_. 

Fingers in his hair again. Dragged up, not enough to stand, just enough for Dean to lean over without bowing down. "You made a fucking _mess_ , Sam." Dean's voice was a lion's roar in the room, silencing all talk. "Maybe I should piss on you too, huh? Complete the picture? Blow my load on your face, on the floor, have you lick it up?"

Sam jerked back involuntarily, coughed up a heart-felt _"Fuck you,"_ and received two knife-sharp kicks to his gut for his efforts. He doubled over, wheezing, and then something latched onto the chain between his hands, and he couldn't move them away; he was bound to the floor, like a goddamn hound dog.

Sam fought the urge to scream in frustration.

In Eden, sex was something private, personal, intimate; something to share with only those you made love to. It wasn't for the rest of the world. In Cavum, though, things were different. Sam had heard the stories; they had all heard the stories. Cavum was the debauchery at its simplest; post-nuptial consummations were almost always carried out in front of the assembled guest, prostitutes were as common as food-vendors at markets and the capital, Asmodeus, was colloquially referred to as the City of Whores- it wasn't hard to imagine why. Sex was - to demons - a part of every day life, as common as breathing and eating and drinking.

It really shouldn't have surprised Sam when he heard a faint rustling of material and spongy flesh at his lips. An appreciative murmur plowed through the room.

Sam reared back, nearly toppling over, the iron cuffs digging into his wrists as he wrenched himself away from Dean. A possessive hand in his hair dragged him back, his breath ghosting over the head of Dean's dick. Dean chuckled and pressed a finger over Sam's pursed lips.

"Not this time, don't worry," Dean said. Fingers rubbed at his neck, staying him when he startled back. "Just stay still."

He could hear the familiar sound of flesh rubbing flesh, the dull friction of it and Dean's satisfied sigh. Calloused fingers pried his lips open, pressed down on his tongue, rooting around, gathering saliva. He wanted to bite down again, taste iron and sweat and fruitless victory, but the tug at his hair was warning enough; he could feel the sting of a few strands coming loose, promising much, much worse if he defied Dean now.

The hand on Dean's dick was back, now, the slow stroking slicked by Sam's spit. The head tapped against Sam's cheek and Sam wrenched his head away, biting down on his lip to keep the empty threats at bay.

"Don't you dare move away, Sam, or I'll tear the skin off your back myself. Make myself a new canvas, huh? Make it pretty with blood," Dean drawled. He kept at it, fondling his cock worryingly close to Sam's face as the gaggle of demons watched and cooed, uttering filth, until he came, all over Sam's face.

Sam felt sick to the core.

The first spurts hit his cheekbone; the following, his lips, his jaw, until Sam broke free, ripping himself  from Dean's grip. His chained hands kept him from moving too far away, but other than an additional dribble of white dusting his chest, he managed to avoid the majority of Dean's release.

"I don't think the angel liked my present," Dean mused, and the crowed howled with laughter. Sam felt his cheeks blush crimson.

"Lick it up, Sam," Dean said, and head was being shoved down ( _into the water over Dean's dick_ ) until he had to brace himself on his hand to stop himself from kissing the floor.

"Lick it up, Sam!" Dean roared, and the crowd echoed; "Lick it up! Lick it up!"

"No," Sam whispered.

* * *

Castle watched in horrified fascination as Sam refused Dean, and he simply gaped, wide eyed, as  Dean's face curled into a sneer.

"No? No?" Dean stood up, turned to the multitude, and dragged Sam with him, so that they could all see Sam's come-stained face. "The angel thinks he's got a choice!"

The room thundered with the crowd's excitement as it bunched forwards to catch Dean's response. Castiel found himself doing the exact opposite; he drew back, unwilling to watch as the demons defiled his Captain - his comrade, his friend even - so thoroughly and absolutely.

A demon - Meg - caught his arm and hauled him forth. "Nuh-uh, Blue Eyes. You're not missing the show."

She dragged him to the front line of the crowd, where he could only observe helplessly as a rope was thrown over a swooping, banner-draped beam, and Sam's wrist were untied from the floor only to be secured to the rough hemp, not without resistance. 

Meg held on to him with surprising strength, digging her fingers into his upper arms, practically giddy with excitement.

"This angel," Dean started, "fought against us in the war. We brought him down, though." Dean surveyed the room. "Or did we?" Dean pulled at the silk criss-crossing Sam's back, drawing a whimper from him. "He still doesn't follow my orders. What should we do?" Dean grinned, expectant and proud, and the demons threw suggestions at him like sticks for a dog.

Eventually, Dean settled for a flogger with cruel wire knotted at every leather length. He trailed it down Sam's chest, and Castiel could see the fine tremors that wracked his body easily.

 _Thwack_.

The black strips had arched almost gracefully through the air before striping Sam's chest, rosing his pale skin and freckling it with red.

 _Thwack_.

Pink bloomed on Sam's skin like poppies in a field.

 _Thwack_.

This time, Sam couldn't hold back a scream.

Each strike rose welts and dotted Sam's skin, drawing cheers and gasps from the court as Sam whimpered and cried out. Castiel wanted to rush forth and help him, but what could he do, that wouldn't result in him strung up next to Sam?

Nothing.

So Castiel watched, Meg's palms on his shoulders, as Lord Winchester wreaked red on Sam's skin; he listened to his pained yells when the flog fell upon the earlier wounds; he pretended that he couldn't smell the iron from where he stood, and he closed his eyes and shed a tear when Sam finally gave up.

"Stop!" Sam screamed. His lip was bleeding, likely bitten through, and the blindfold was tearstained. "Stop," he choked, voice thick with pent up sobs and shrieks. "I- I yield."

Brave words for a man without a sword.

Dean nodded, and with a deft swing of his left arm, the rope was cut and Sam collapsed to the ground, lying in a crumpled heap. "Go on, darling," Dean urged. Sam struggled to get on his knees, and Dean led him to the puddle of congealing blood and semen with soft hands, light as butterflies on his bleeding back. Tiny rivulets of blood had wound up around the rings and ribbon; the black was blacker still, drenched and stiff with Sam's blood.

"Lick it up," Dean said, softly, a mother's lullaby and a priest's blessing. "C'mon, Sammy."

Sam bowed his head. He opened his mouth and out darted his tongue, quick and clever. It dabbed at the mess a couple of time before Dean pulled him back, shushing his whimpers. 

"I think the angel learned his lesson," Dean proclaimed, and the crowd roared its agreement. There were hoots and hollers from the demons, cold grins and sadistic laughs. Castiel wanted to shut them all out, burn the Keep to the ground.

Dean called over a trio of servants and handed Sam's limp form to them. "Clean him up. I want him ready by supper time."

"And you," Dean said, looking straight at Castiel. He pointed at the remnants of his jizz and blood. "Wash that away, will you?"

Castiel nodded jerkily, and as he approached with his pail of water and sponge, Dean grabbed his arms and asked quietly, "You know why he yielded?"

Castiel wanted to scream at him; to point out Sam's bloodied body; to cry over the miserable situation their lives had become. "No."

Dean regarded at him for a second, emerald eyes could and tough as packed ice. "I told him I'd string you up instead if he didn't," Dean said, so matter-of-factly that Castiel wanted to puke all over his rich clothes. Dean clapped him on the shoulder and stepped away, offering one last sentence.

"You should remember that. I know I will."

Castiel wouldn't be forgetting any time soon.

* * *

The servants had treated Sam with a detached gentleness; they cleaned him up patiently and carefully, which was more than he expected of any demon. They had then rubbed his wounds over with salt water and a sour-smelling disinfectant before carefully placing linen bandages over the worst slices and smearing his bruises and welts with a cold cream which eased the throbbing; he appreciated it, and told them as much. The girls hadn't responded, but the boy had nodded shyly and left it at that. He'd been granted a cape; black, with white streaks dashing through it, and he'd wrapped it around himself gratefully.

He'd then been dragged to a mess hall, grand like nothing else and saturated with the scent of laughter, spiced lamb, and honey wine. Some demons turned to look at him as he passed, jeering and reaching out, but his escorts were diligent if nothing else, and they brought him directly to Dean's side.

Dean's smile was a rainbow after a thunderstorm.

Sam's fingers. Dean's throat. Enough pressure and half a minute; bodies were so fragile, and life infinitely so.

Alas, reality did not correspond with fantasy; in truth, it was Dean's palm around his hip, drawing him closer, searching under his cape, applying pressure around the bandages and smoothing over the bruises. Green eyes tracked his face and flicked to the floor, a wordless command.

Sam silently dropped to his knees, and leaned heavily against Dean's chair. Dean nodded, satisfied, and carded a mellow hand through his hair. It was soft. He was warm. Anger and pain had left Sam utterly drained. He'd muster up the energy to be furious tomorrow.

Sam's stomach growled an announcement. Dean laughed; Sam sighed.

Dean plucked a chunk of buttered bread off a platter and offered it to Sam, who reached for it with his hands, but Dean stopped him, warmly still

"You either eat it from my fingers or not at all, Sam."

Sam leaned forward and bit carefully down on the bread.

_This is not giving in._

"Good boy."

_This is not giving in._

* * *

The next day, Sam was lead out of his room by Dean, with the blindfold wrapped around his eyes. His stomach churned at the thought of a repeat of yesterday, but they took a turn that Sam didn't remember and climbed flights of stairs which hadn't been present during his previous journey.

Even the low light of the candles hurt his eyes when Dean slipped off the blindfold, but that was to be expected, and so other than a hiss and a furious blinking of his eyes, Sam barely reacted.

Then, he peeled his eyes open and stared around in wonder. The library easily climbed three stories high, and there was a circular staircase draped around the walls for access to every stage. Shelves spread out as far as Sam could see, all stretching outwards like rays coming off the sun.

"You..." Sam began. He didn't know how to continue, so he didn't.

"I promised," Dean said resolutely. He stroked Sam's cheek with an almost alien tenderness and kissed him chastely; then, he was gone, and Sam was left alone with his books and his fear and his wonder.

_This is not giving in._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added exhibitionism and humiliation; just what this melting pot of a fic needed.  
> Please point out any mistakes: I didn't proof read it, so it might be a little messy.  
> Also, opinions? What did you think?


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was in bed, when Sam came back from the library. The early evening sun danced across his chest and painted the room golden.

After his first stay in the library, Sam had made a habit of asking Dean to lead him there and leave him be during the day. Dean had accepted, so long as he came to the throne room every once in a while. The second condition was that he had to be back in Dean's chambers before the sixth bell had been struck; an hour before Dean usually retired to his chambers for a short rest, before dining and closing the gates for the day. Other times, he was dragged back by lunch, but evening had never settled without him in Dean's room

But right now, Dean was naked in his bed, lounging against the headboard, encircled by silk and looking like one of those deities of sin the southern people worshipped. It was a mattress and not a throne and it was inked cloth instead of gold but he looked like a king, and Sam could picture his soldiers following him into battle like sheep, a single-minded storm infused with unnatural demonic strength and he saw someone that people would adore.

Sam saw a monster.

There was a fat cigar nestled between two sturdy fingers ( _they've been inside of you he's been inside of you are you even you anymore?_ ) and resting on a plump lower lip. Dean sucked harshly on the cigar and blew out a plume of smoke. Sam caught a whiff of it and realized at wasn't a cigar at all, but a joint - though marijuana was more popular in the eastern country, its fame hadn't gone unnoticed in Eden. This smell, Sam knew, but the scent was somehow... sweeter, he supposed.

Dean brought the thick roll to his mouth again and closed his eyes as he inhaled, only opening them as he expelled the heady fumes.

"Join me, Sammy," Dean said thickly. The words permeated the air like a potent poison, cloying and deceiving. He patted the bed space next to him in invitation, smirk in place and eyes hooded.

There weren't any weapons in the room. Unsurprising, but Sam couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment; this could have been a perfect opportunity kill Dean, now that he was too wrapped up in pleasure to do anything more than take a vague interest in the proceedings.

Sam approached carefully, like a scorned cat slinking closer to a cooing angel. He perched on the far corner of the bed, limbs brought close to his body, turtle-like, chains pressing into his knees. The metal links felt like armor, sometimes.

"You _really_ don't like me, do you," Dean observed. If that grin of his remained on his face much longer, Sam had the feeling that his face would simply stay that way, like a mask.

"What gave you that idea?" Sam replied, sarcasm oozing from his voice.

Dean just laughed. Sam didn't think he cared; Dean likely saw him as another toy to break.

Sam wouldn't break. Even the uncanny strength that demons possessed couldn't snap the famed Damascus steel; bend, maybe but not shatter.

"D'you wanna have a go?" Dean asked, gesturing lazily with his joint, the cherry-red tip tainting the air with wisps of smoke.

"Not really."

Dean laughed. It was a deep, throaty chuckle, seemingly emerging from the depths of his stomach. "You misunderstood me." He held the heated roll within Sam's reach and waited for him to pluck it from his fingers. "Take a hit. Don't choke too much." He grinned lazily. "Try anything funny and we'll find out just how pretty your legs look with polka dots."

Sam took the joint. It nearly scraped his knee as he brought it to his mouth, and he suppressed a shudder as an unbidden image of his legs speckled with charred moons came to mind.

He placed the rolled-up spliff between his lips and breathed.

Sour smoke billowed down his throat, bringing tears to his eyes and several rounds of coughs up to his mouth. He kept a white-knuckled grip on the joint as he hacked up the smoke, shaking like a leaf.

Dean smiled fondly at him and tugged away the joint. He offered Sam a glass of water he hadn't previously noticed and clapped at his back in between laughs honeyed with affection.

"First times are always the worst," Dean murmured once Sam's coughing had died down.

It wasn't Sam first time - second, rather. He had a feeling that the joint had a few extra ingredients imbued into the crushed leaves, but he kept quiet. Dean probably knew.

"Let's try something else," Dean was saying, and then his cheeks were hollowing with his next drag and soft lips were brushing Sam's, sealing over his mouth and blowing ( _poisoned_ ) seasoned air into his lungs.

It was fine. Well. He still coughed, but it was better, anyway. Dean's fingers against his jaw felt like firecrackers.

Dean's green eyes were staring into his own. Later on, he'd remember thinking that it was ironic that Death had eyes the color that Life had painted nature in. Now, they swallowed him up. Endless voids.

Sam's fingers sought out Dean's throat. They curled around his neck and Dean laughed at him. "That's not how this works," he growled, and for a second, he was a shark. A shadow. A reaper.

Dean's grip around Sam's wrist damn near ground his metacarpals to dust as he kissed more sweet smoke into Sam. When he drew back, Sam was floating.

Dean's thumb traced circles into the palm of Sam's hand, as if to ground him. Sam wished he could drift away with the smoke, even with the too-hot touch of reality dragging him down.

"Feels good, doesn't it," Dean whispered into Sam's ear. His tongue flicked out to Sam's jaw, followed by a hungry mouth which bit and bruised and kissed all the way down to Sam's neck, tongue clumsier than usual but no less enthusiastic. He licked a stripe up Sam's throat and took another hit from the joint, blowing the viscous essence down Sam’s gullet.

"There we go," Dean hummed, and then he retreated towards the headboard, leading Sam along. The angel's pupils were blown wide, black gobbling up the usual hazel, and he looked utterly dazed. Dean stubbed the smoking joint into an ashtray and dragged Sam into his lap, fondling his cock as Dean rolled his hips against Sam's ass. Sam shifted uncomfortably, made as if to object like he always did when Dean touched him, especially his dick, but Dean's hand cupping his jaw ( _so close to his neck still painted mauve Sam was the most beautiful angel he had ever seen_ ) and his thumb was cradled between Sam's lips, as if he were sealing the doorway to Sam's voice. Not pushing, though. Not demanding. Just... there, as he rocked his hips and stroked Sam.

But Sam could only take so much and he pushed Dean's hand away eventually, along with a slurred, "Don't."

Dean smiled up at him. The corners of his eyes crinkled like old parchment, and Sam expected the worst for a second, but he just removed his hand and said, "If you say so." He slid his palm up Sam's firm abdomen, soft and sweet before sitting the angel in front of him. "Fuck, you're pretty," Dean breathed, cupping Sam's face with both his hands. Sam's own balled up uselessly in his lap. "Like you were meant for me."

And then Sam's long fingers were covering up his face and Sam was hunched over, a perfect juxtaposition to the relaxed ( _willing?_ ) Sam from a few seconds ago. 

"Okay then," Dean mused, still jovial, and he gently coaxed Sam to roll his loose pants down his legs, running soothing hands down his flank as he pushed Sam down on his back.

Sam had thrown an arm over his eyes. He was relaxed, with nothing more than a faint whimper as a response to when Dean breached him with his fingers, and eventually his dick. He opened up easily, now. 

Warms hands around Sam’s neck. Soft lips on his.

Dean adored this. When Sam let go, calmed down and allowed Dean to treat him like he wanted to. Fucking Sam had been crushed velvet and tears, an endless war as he tried to convince Sam to give himself to Dean. Sam drugged, and soft and pliant was beautiful, honey and fireworks as their flesh worked together. This was making _love_.

Dean eventually came inside Sam with a content sigh, and didn't pull out as he rearranged himself and Sam to a more comfortable position, wrapping his arms around Sam's chest and them both in his silk sheets.

"So good for me, Sam" Dean slurred. "Always so good."

They napped together, for about an hour. When Sam awoke, Dean was gone and there was nothing stopping him from running to the bathroom and throwing up the contents of his stomach.

*** 

Sam's days at the council were a double-edged knife; as interesting as it was to learn of the affairs of Cavum (he sent a silent cheer towards his people whenever a victory of theirs was mentioned; they seemed to be gaining ground at the eastern front, so that was rather often), whenever the demons descended into one of their own rough-tongued dialects, he lost track of the conversation completely and then it was just him, his bruised knees and his despair.

Sam knew that they talked about him, sometimes. He caught the covert insults easily enough, and could feel their harsh, judging eyes on his back whenever Dean bent him over the table and pumped his hips into him slowly, so slowly, so as to keep his focus. 

Right now the cold-cut edge of the table was digging into his hips as Dean fucked him from behind, a gag in his mouth to stop him from making any noise. This was common practice, apparently; just two seats away, a hardened man with only one eye was being serviced by a younger blonde, and no one had batted an eye.

Dean spoke over him, gesturing with the hand not wrapped in Sam's hair, pushing him into the table. He mentioned northern Cavum cities and their diminishing wealth and drove his dick in deep, pushing a surprised groan from Sam.

Dean stilled. "Sorry, pet, did you say something?" He asked sweetly. Mockingly.

Sam wanted to scream _._

Sam had chains around his wrists.

Sam wanted to _fight_.

Sam was getting his ass plowed by a demon who had destroyed his army, and now called him his bitch.

Sam shook his head.

"Good boy," Dean said, and resumed his conversation, the too-soft pace back in place.

Later, Sam leaned against Dean's leg in the dining hall and made eye-contact with Castiel as he leaned over and refilled Dean's cup with wine. Dean slipped a hand down from the table, bearing a fat strawberry, which Sam took between his teeth without complaint. He gripped Castiel's leg as he chewed mutely begging him to look down. To afford him some attention which wasn't filled with hatred or lust.

Castiel said nothing, merely turned away and continued with his rounds.

A slip of paper had fluttered into his lap.

Hope poked its bashful rays over the mountains of surrender ( _not yet not until my heart stops beating_ ) and Sam smiled.

Dean saw this, and grinned back as he carded a hand through Sam's hair. Sam pretended the smile was for him.

His smile was rebellion.

His smile was for Castiel.

His smile was for a chance.

* * *

Sam looked in the mirror.

He wasn't a captain. He was a failure.

He was an enemy lord's slut.

He punched the mirror and a fine crack appeared, so that his image split in two.

Broken. 

Was he broken?

"I'm not broken."

The man in the mirror mouthed the words back at him.

"I'm not broken, and I'm going to fight _back_."

He whirled away from the ruined glass, and set off to find Castiel.

It was time to get rid of his chains.

* * *

"Good morning darling," Dean murmured into Sam's neck. His fingers moved slowly in and out of Sam, stretching him thoroughly as he eased him into consciousness. He rubbed at Sam's shoulder when his angel truly woke up and began to struggle, whispering sweet nothings in his ear as Sam finally settled down.

"You're doing great, Sammy," Dean whispered, and he wrapped a palm around Sam's neck. "Shh, no, don't fight me, just relax."

And Sam did.

And Sam plotted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short filler chapter which I'll probably come back and edit sooner or later. I wrote this while procrastinating for the fourth chapter, but don't worry; a few more hundred words and we're all set, hopefully.
> 
> Edit: I noticed a plothole and edited Chapter 2 to fix it; I just added weird harness things to all the angel slaves except for Sam. There designed to keep angels from manifesting their wings and can only be taken off with a special key which Dean has. Sam doesn't know about the key; the other angels don't either. The harness/ straitjacket things are a blend of leather and metal and I don't know anything else because I legit made them up in less than five minutes. Also, I will be including this note in future chapters so that readers who skipped the first chapters know what's going on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Edit: For those of you who are rereading this, I just wanted to change the pills to a drink. They have the same purpose; the only difference is their state of matter. This decision has come about because I only start writing a chapter after I've published the previous one, and I don't have a clear plotline. In short, I'm a terrible writer and continuity evades me.~~  
>  Nope. Sorry for messing things up, I had to hammer out a couple of things and I realized that pills are what I want to go with.  
> I'm sorry. Continuity does evade me, though. That hasn't changed,

The morning's symphony was of the wooden bed creaking, of the crackle of the flames by the fireplace and of Dean's groaning as he slid in and out of Sam.

Sam was on his back, practically melted into the mattress. His fingers were twined with Dean's, held down above his head. _"I want of fuck you on your back, gorgeous. I wanna see your pretty lips and dick, all mine."_ Their hands were clasped together like those of lovers at Dean's behest, though Sam's nails were pockmarking the back of Dean's hand with tiny crescents. _"I don't belong to you."_ Dean's other hand was palming Sam's throat, crimson finger prints tripping down the soft skin of his neck, and Dean remembered pressing down, killing his voice, trapping his breath, equivocating his life-

_"You do. You will."_

Sam's eyes were screwed shut, had been since Dean hooked his thumbs inside Sam's hole and pulled the dusky pucker wide, just enough for his dick to slip in. " _Don't."_   Dean had used so much oil that it had practically sloshed inside Sam, wetting his dick like a pussy. He'd told Sam as much, soft, admiring, grateful, and Sam had turned away, cheeks blooming with color that had finally settled on a lovely rose shade, blotchy with blood. " _Tight, so good, Sammy."_ Sam's hair fanned around him, a silk halo, and some of the shorter strands clung to his face, forming curlicues against his skin. His nose was adorably scrunched up, drawn up like a child's, and his lips were bitten red as poppies.

Dean's legs were bracketed with Sam's own. They were obscenely spread, sugar-sweet and hard with muscle, coaxed apart by Dean's calloused hands and gentle touch. One knee pointed up, his foot planted flat on the bed, toes curling whenever Dean nudged something good inside of him, and the other leg coiled around his thigh, twitching every now and again.

His chest was heaving softly, rising and falling like the ersatz waves on windless days, glistening with sweat. Faint markings curled around Sam's shoulders, hinting at the hidden.

Then, the true prize; the fluttering muscles in his stomach, strained and defined, framing his hardened dick. It was languidly oozing sticky strands of precome, flushed red and velvet-smooth. All Dean's.

"Oh, Sam," Dean breathed. "You have no idea what you do to me. You look absolutely beautiful." Sam's blush spread down his chest, pinking his throat and collarbones, but his eyes remained closed. Lined with silver. Damp clinging to his lashes.

Dean smiled softly at him and leaned down, rolling his hips lazily. They had all day. He captured Sam's lips with his own, nibbled gently on his lower lip and swept his tongue inside Sam's mouth, candy-floss and downy.

He twisted his hips, ground them in stuffy infinity signs, making Sam's back arch like a bow. Sam's eyes flew open, lips parted in a cherry-toned 'o' as he struggled to regain his composure. Sam's free hand raked nails down his back, and still he remained quiet, not a single word escaping from the cage Dean's hand made.

_"I like you better without your back-talk."_

"See, Sammy?" Dean whispered as he mouthed at the juncture between Sam's neck and shoulder. "I told you I could make you feel good, if you just let me. Doesn't this feel good?"

Sam's eyes shuttered once more, and he buried his face in his shoulder, as if in shame. Dean laughed, softly, not mocking, never mocking, not when he had such a beautiful being in his bed. He lapped at Sam's sternum, tasting sweat and skin.

"It really doesn't," Sam choked out. Sam lied. Sam... Sam was _lying_. "Give up, Dean. Leave me _alone_."

"Shh, Sammy," Dean said as his fingers tightened around Sam's throat, once. "Just be quiet and enjoy."

* * *

"I'm back, Sam," Dean announced as he threw the door open, a smile playing on his lips. He was thinking about taking Sam out to walk along the battlements as the sun went down, maybe fuck him in the solar. It had been a while since Sam had tasted fresh air, and Dean thought he might appreciate the change of scenery. If Sam was good, he might even allow his pet to stay out more often, perhaps even enough to bring the golden tan back.

The room was empty.

The bed had been made and all Sam's books were in a neat stack by the window and the candles and fireplace were cold and quiet, no longer keeping the faint chill at bay. "Sam?" Dean asked, padding across the room. He poked at the bathroom door and it swung open without complaint, revealing that it was just as barren as his chamber.

All his previous plans turned to mist. Panic was nibbling at his thoughts, tinging them with grey and rendering them obsolete.

_Maybe he's in the library?_

The castle felt like a maze. Stone steps and carpeted floors fell away beneath his feet but every hallway looked the same, every memory he had built between these walls felt as insignificant as moths to mammoths. Servants and guards alike jumped out of his path, and though they greeted Dean warmly at first, he left the air tasting of fear and confusion wherever he passed.

He arrived at the library breathless.

The heavy doors took some coaxing to open, and he squeezed through them as soon as there was a sliver of space between them. The immediate halls were empty but for the books, piled up on top of each other like bricks, paper fingers reaching for the ceiling. Light streamed in through the grand windows coating the walls and the tinted skylight crowning the building. Faint rustlings and murmurings broke the silence periodically, as if the books themselves demanded noise.

Dean stalked across the room, head whipping around as he scanned the vault-like room. He was halfway up the stairs before a muffled laugh dangled from the topmost story, uninhibited and spontaneous, and Dean immediately knew it for what it was.

_Sam._

Dean streaked up the stairs, uncaring of the way his heavy footfalls broke the fuzzy quiet. He could hear a second, deeper chuckle echoing Sam's own and the panic turned to curiosity-crusted anger. _Who was Sam with?_ Sam didn't know the servants; no court-goer would talk to a slave in any tone other than a demeaning one; the guards were loathe to spark conversation with his angel unless it involved fists; that only left the other prisoners, who had had a grueling work-load dumped on their shoulders since day one.

Dean slinked about the top floor, chasing muted conversation amongst the paper forest. His steps were utterly silent, now; he didn't want Sam and his companion to now he was coming.

Dean rounded a bookshelf to see Sam talking with the blue-eyed angel from the court, eyes alight and posture relaxed. He was talking animatedly, hands illustrating his words so enthusiastically that Dean could almost see the picture they painted, occasionally gesturing towards the spread open book lying on the table before him. The other one - Cassiel? Castiel? - was leaning forth, the corners of his lips twitching up ever so often, eyes soft and body language denoting a safe, comfortable environment. They both made a point of ignoring the chains binding their bodies, even as they slithered against them like snakes.

Dean had never seen Sam like this, so open, so relaxed. His smile was beautiful, and Dean noted that at least one of his earliest assumptions was correct - Sam had dimples, and they lit his face up like stars on a moonless night.

Dean wanted that. Dean wanted all of Sam; his smile, his joy, his laughter, his pain, his misery. And yet, only the blue-eyed angel had been on the receiving end of that beautiful smile.

"Having fun, Sam?" Dean asked, shedding his cloak of shadows and stepping forwards into the light. Sam's smile vanished, and Dean took note of the way his body seemed to move instinctively to shield the other angel.

"You tell me," Sam bit out. His eyes narrowed with defiance, but his clenched fists were shaking and Dean could nearly taste rapid acceleration of his pulse.

"Sam," Dean said, danger smothering his tone. "Come here."

Sam stayed still, and though the other angel was much worse at hiding his panic, they both stood their ground, Blue-Eyes brushing his hand down Sam's back as though in comfort.

"Don't _touch_ him," Dean seethed. The angel flinched. "He's not yours."

"I'm not yours, either!" Sam exploded. He slammed his chained fists onto the wooden table, making it rattle like a maraca. "I'm not your bitch, I'm not your slave and I'm not your damn toy!  I haven't bowed down to you out of my own free will, Dean, have you noticed that? You threaten my soldiers, my friends, and I do as you ask and you call it submission. Or devotion, or- or-"

And then Dean was all up in his space, hands splaying possessively over his chest and curling around his hip. "I'll call it whatever I want, Sammy," he snarled, "because you submit to me all the same."

" _Fuck_ you," Sam hissed. "I'm not _yours_."

Sam slammed his palms into Dean's chest, knocking him backwards. Blue-Eyes watched warily. "Sam," he started; licked his lips. "I don't think-"

It didn't matter what he thought, though, because in a split second there was a hand in Sam's hair dragging him down, bending his body over the wooden table. Sam bucked; futilely, as Dean was already pressing down on his back with all his weight. Sam wasn't going anywhere unless Dean wanted him to.

Blue-Eyes started to dart forwards, but Dean's dagger was at Sam's throat before the angel could take another step.

"Get out," Dean growled at Blue-Eyes. "Get out or I'll paint the table with his blood."

Blue-Eyes blanched, his sorrow-filled gaze seeking Sam's, and he must have found confirmation ( _resignation it's not for you never for you_ ) in his eyes, because he slipped out of the library without a word.

"You should thank me," Dean said, calmer now that the other angel was gone. "I was gonna punch that angel's nose in. Tear him apart. I didn't, though, and I'm not feeling any gratitude from you."

Dean rolled his hips against Sam's clothed ass, just to feel the tension in his muscles, to see the way his back rippled and twisted beneath blue silk. "Thank me, Sammy."

"You can take gratitude and shove it up your ass," Sam bit out, wrestling against Dean's hold relentlessly. Hopelessly.

"Say it again, then, Sammy," Dean whispered. "Say that you don't belong to me. Keep on lying."

Sam's hands beat against the edge of the table, drumming out a rhythmless tune. His back arched and his muscles strained and his teeth ground together but the dagger still kissed his throat and Dean's weight remained unmovable.

"Giving me the silent treatment isn't nice, Sam," Dean taunted. He let a few seconds clear the air before crushing Sam's throat.

A bare minute later, Sam's resistance had faded away like the dying sunlight and Dean was left with an armful of unconscious, complacent Sam.

Dean brushed Sam's lips with his own and gathered him up like a sleeping child. He carried his angel through the castle, a satisfied smile resting on his face.

When he reached his destination, he laid Sam out gently, rearranging his body so as to allow for easy accessibility. He bound Sam's hands above his head and his feet spread wide bellow, and he waited.

And he waited.

* * *

Sam woke up to the dour fingers of damp and ice running down his body. He groaned and stretched like a cat, coaxing out the stiffness that the unforgiving posture had instilled in his muscles. He tugged experimentally at his limbs and found them not only chained, but anchored with absolutely no give - an experience he was sadly becoming accustomed to.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," Dean chirped. He was leaning against an unfurnished wall, which struck Sam as strange - all the rooms in the Keep had been tastefully armed against both winter's threats and austerity. There was only a slim table in the room, bulging with numerous... instruments. "Have a nice nap?"

Sam settled for glaring at Dean.

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes, apparently annoyed. He drew a thin cane from the table and held it almost reverently in his hands, thumbing the hilt so that it rolled slightly, light metal catching the light and harshly spewing it back. Sam gulped and clenched his jaw.

Dean walked over to Sam and traced a finger down his chest, over his stomach; the cane's tapered tip followed, ice-cold and unyielding.

"What do you need your arm for, Sammy?" Dean queried. Nimble fingers danced over Sam's bicep, tapping and rubbing almost absentmindedly.

"For you to have something to wrap a chain around, apparently," Sam bit out, and Dean, though noticeably displeased, almost looked like he was about to laugh.

"Sure," Dean accepted. "But it's really not that useful to me, is it?"

Dean took a step back, and the cane sang as it cut through the air, landing on Sam's arm with enough force that he let out a pained yelp. Harsh aluminium went flying once again and landed on the sensitive inside of Sam's elbow, which made him howl.

Two quick strikes striped Sam's chest, another one made him feel like his stomach was caving in and Sam's sobs and groans and gasps wove a jarring tune. Dean's demonic strength added to the momentum of the swings, and a stray thought oozing through Sam's head hummed in surprise at the lack of blood drooling down his chest.

"Foot up," Dean ordered. He rapped the cane on the floor next to Sam's toes.

"F-f- _fuck_ you," Sam shuddered.

The cane cracked down on Sam's Achilles tendon, and his responding keen echoed throughout the room.

"You fight because you think of this as your body, don't you?" Dean asked, earnest and wide-eyed. "But it's not. It belongs to me, Sam."

"It _doesn't_ ," Sam said, desperately.

"That's where you're wrong, Sam. It's not yours, and you don't need it."

 _Thwack_.

The outside of Sam's left thigh _burned_. "Stop, for fuck's sake, _stop_!"

 _Thwack_.

And now the inside, fuck, that was sensitive and Sam couldn't keep a scream in.

"Because all you need," Dean whispered, "is me."

* * *

Sam ached.

Sam's limbs had barely been able to sustain him while he climbed the winding stairs of the castle's skeleton, but Dean had been patient, had held him up whenever he crumpled, had whispered honeyed words into his ear and led Sam to Dean's chambers, shaking and sweating. Sam had then been laid out on the bed, still handled oh-so gently, and Dean had smiled at him and murmured that everything was alright, had stroked his hair and kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand before retreating to the bathroom.

It was instances like these that made Sam wonder if Dean was insane.

Dean was a General in his army, and a Lord to boot; he was clearly cunning and sharp-minded, if only as a façade. Sam couldn't quite comprehend how Dean could pummel his body with fists and metal and then do a full turn and treat him like something precious, something to be cherished.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam croaked when Dean came back from the bathroom, armed with a soaked towel and a tube of ointment Sam was far too familiar with.

Dean frowned as he crawled up on the mattress next to Sam, tracing the burning welts on Sam's chest with surprising tenderness. "I've got to admit," Dean remarked, his brow lightly bunched together. "I'm not entirely sure what you're talking about."

Sam licked his lips; they were drier than a dessert at noon, as was his throat. "You- you've called me beautiful," he started, and it hurt to even get the words out. A hysterical laugh bubbled past his lips. "You've said that I- that I was _made_ for you." He shook his head. "Half the time, fuck, you act like you're in love with me." Dean applied too much pressure on his reddened chest and Sam hissed, prompting Dean to move on. "And then you try to destroy my body."

"Mine," Dean murmured, a possessive hand firm on Sam's quivering stomach. He seemed lost in thought.

"What's your end game, Dean?" Sam asked. He was exhausted, and he was stressed, he was hurt, and he was so, so _confused_. "What do you _want_?"

_And will he let you go if you give it to him? Let the rest of them go?_

A dollop of thick cream splattered over Dean's fingers. A thin string dripped from it like a garland. He smeared it over the welts and rubbed it into Sam's skin, pausing whenever Sam's breath hitched.

Eventually, he shrugged. The gesture shattered the silence like a mallet on bone.

"You, I guess," Dean said, and he talked as if he were a million miles away. Lost. Quiet. "Don't really know why I'd need anything else."

* * *

"That was too close," Sam whispered into Castiel's midnight hair. "We have to be more careful, next time."

Castiel broke away from the hug. "I know." He placed his hand over Sam's heart, a gesture of solidarity and respect in Eden. "But Sam, you must remember," he urged, bluebell eyes beseeching. "Your pain, your death - it is not worth this."

Sam shook his head. "It might have to be, Cas."

After that, he was gone, and the cellar seemed that much colder.

* * *

"Take these," Dean said. Two pills huddled together in the palm of his hand. They were small and speckled, sparrows eggs in the nest of Dean's hand.

Sam stared at him. "What will they do to me?" It wasn't consent.

He wasn't saying no, either.

Dean hummed thoughtfully. "They won't knock you out. They're about as strong as the marijuana from a few weeks ago. I liked you like that." Dean leaned over and nipped at Sam's neck, eyes alight with lust. He pressed the pills into Sam's hand and curled the angel's long fingers over them, stared at him as they sat like twin stars in the sky. Looking. Waiting. "You'll be softer, just for me. Let me in so easy," he breathed against the hollow of Sam's neck. "It'll feel like you're floating."

"Like I'm not even here," Sam supplied dully. His voice, his eyes, his lips, everything was grey. Grey like smoke. Whispering away. Not even Dean could keep air trapped in his hands.

"If that's what you want," Dean replied honestly. There was a fire in Sam's irises, and now Dean knew where the smoke, the gray, came from.

"That's what I want," Sam said. His fist opened up like a flower, revealing sweet nectar at the center. He knocked both pills back at the same time and stared Dean straight in the eye, as if daring him to make a comment. Dean said nothing. He brushed his thumb over Sam's cheekbone, a smile playing across his lips as he admired Sam.

"How long until they take effect?" Sam asked quietly.

"Not long," Dean promised. "Twenty minutes, half an hour. Don't worry about it."

Sam nodded and sat back, wrapping a woolen fleece around his bare shoulders. It was getting colder as winter approached, but Sam thought that the chill in his bones was mostly due to something else. He refused to acknowledge Dean's presence, ignoring the warmth that Dean seeped into his side as he read, and even as the pills pulled his thoughts apart and melted his body, he kept his focus elsewhere. The story he was reading, the way the light on the walls was growing fuzzy edges, the lightness of his body, the- the-

The feel of Dean's hands on him. They still made him nauseous, but the pills were yanking sensation apart by the seams, relaxing him, stuffing wool in his ears and pulling cobwebs over his eyes. His legs were being hitched open, slippery fingers working between them to... do something. Sam groaned. The pressure felt good, and the thought of Dean between his legs - one now slung over Dean's shoulder - was easier to stomach. Dean rolled his hips and Sam shifted, stretching his arms as best as he could with the chain.

Sam could hear Dean praising him and he tried to roll away; he didn't want to hear what Dean had to say, he wanted the fog and the peace that came with silence. A stray hand trailed up his torso and he bucked his hips, just once.

Dean looked pleased. Sam wasn't entirely sure why, but there was a smirk of satisfaction tugging at his features and he was actually a little attractive when Sam thought about it, green eyes and toned limbs and freckled skin caressing his body, like a gentle breeze lifting waves on the ocean.

Sam came with Dean's hand on his dick. At that moment, all he could think of was relief, _fuck, finally_ , and Dean's gentle laugh as he stroked Sam through the aftershocks.

Later, though. After Sam had slept the effects off, when the light was not spun sugar and dark comfort but the acidic paintbrush of reality. "The pills," he began, and Dean startled, tossing him a look from where he was getting dressed. "You lied. They- they were worse than the marijuana."

So much worse. Fuck, _fuck_. The things he had ( _Dean had_ ) done ( _to him_ ). And he'd _liked_ it.

"I miscalculated, I guess," Dean replied. He didn't sound particularly invested in the subject, but Sam didn't want to let it drop.

"I don't-"

"Just keep on taking them, will you?" Dean said through a scowl. "It's a win-win, isn't it?"

Was it? Was the loss of control worth the loss of just about everything else?

"One," Sam countered. "I'll take one."

Dean stared at him. "One pill. Whenever I tell you to, and you take it without complaint." He was throwing a heavy cloak around his shoulders, now, and he glanced at the mirror to readjust it.

"No more than two a day," Sam insisted. Though the not-quite-there feeling  of the pills was great, but for every step he had climbed, he had fallen that much harder back to the ground. His stomach gurgled, and he nibbled absentmindedly on a nail as he watched Dean.

Dean sighed. "Fine. I'll have a servant bring you food."

"No need," Sam said. Too quickly, maybe, but he was tired. "I'm not hungry." That much was true.

Dean paused. "If you say so." He sat down on the edge of the bed and grasped Sam's face with one hand. He pressed a short kiss to Sam's lips, tongue flicking out for the briefest second before he turned and left the room.

* * *

Water pounded down on Sam's head, muffling the universe and tinging it with steam. Outside, the world laughed at him, mocked him cruelly for his failures - _you couldn't win the war you couldn't save your soldiers you couldn't even save yourself_ \- but here, in the warmth, in the golden hours before Dean retreated to his chamber, all was calm. All was quiet.

He could take out his wings.

They unfurled slowly, almost timidly, like a reluctant flower in the early spring. The feathers were in an almost embarrassing state of disarray, but that was to be expected - he had had them hidden away for months, and he hadn't bothered to preen them since much earlier.

The doors were closed. He had time.

Carefully, oh so carefully, Sam extended his wings, filling negative space with mottled grey. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head back, letting the water pour down his face and chest. For a second, he was transported back to Eden, safe, and he felt... pure.

Sam didn't know how to feel about that, once the moment passed.

He flapped both wings a couple of times, stretching them this way and that to work out the stiffness borne of longs months of hiding them.

Sam folded his right wing loose and brought the other in close, brushing his finger tips against the shorter feathers of the downy area. He'd missed the simplicity of this task, and Dean wasn't due until later. There was time

Gentle fingers combed through the sleek primary feathers, setting them appropriately for fight or flight. It had been too long since he had last brought them out, he reflected, and he felt for his brethren; the strange harnesses the angels had wrapped around their bodies prevented them from drawing out their wings, much less flying. An itch they couldn't quite scratch.

The door swung open, announcing Dean's entry. _Fuck._ Sam could hear footsteps and halfhearted humming, gradually coming closer, accentuated by the soft thump of clothes being shed, but even as his breathing sped up and his hands turned clammy, he just couldn't bring himself to hide his wings. There was a split second of deliberation and then Dean was in the bathroom with him, and the choice was gone.

"Heya, Sam," Dean whispered. Cold hands slithered up his back, teasing at the curve of his ass and fluttering at the base of the wings. "I don't think I've seen these before."

Sam snorted. He clenched his shaking hands and shut off the water, making as if to get out. "You've got a terrible memory, then. I fought with them the day I..." his mouth went dry. "The day you..."

"I remember now," Dean said, a hand clamping down on Sam's shoulder. "The day I found you." 

"That's one way to put it," Sam muttered under his breath, and flinched when Dean laughed.

"Stay, won't you?" Dean flicked the hot water back on. "And here," he added, offering Sam a bone-white pill. "Take it. Sit down. And leave the wings out."

The pill fell like lead down Sam's throat. He drew his wings up, hiking them over his shoulders so that the primary feathers brushed his arms as he curled up on the bathtub floor, shoulders hunched and knees brought up like shields. He wasn't sure why, though. There was nothing Dean hadn't seen. 

Dean brushed back Sam's hair. "Good boy." He sat down facing Sam, considering his wings. He stretched his fingers out to touch the tip of the left wing, but Sam drew them back, feathers spiking so as to appear bigger. Dean raised an eyebrow, but remained quiet - the flared feathers had seemed to be more instinctual than anything else.

Dean talked for a while, playing with Sam's hands as the tub filled. He nibbled at the pad of Sam's thumb, hoping to coax a reaction out of him, but Sam just looked tired. His wings seemed to frame his face like an aureola, grey replacing the traditional gold, mimicking his weary soul.

Dean cocked his head. "In Eden, it's usually the spouse who grooms the wings, right?"

Sam nodded warily.

"Then let me do it," Dean suggested. "Stretch them out and I'll fix them up-"

Sam's wings folded in on themselves like origami, and then vanished. Sam didn't seem phased.

"I manage just fine on my own," Sam said coolly, though the effect was mostly lost on Dean.

"If you say so," Dean replied, and made a mental note to ask around on the subject of angel's wings, and how to maintain them present against said angels' wills. "Get up."

Sam scowled at him, but the glare soon grew soft edges and then Sam was standing up, water trickling down his body in silvered rivulets that Dean couldn't help but want to lick off him. Dean stood up and spun Sam around, guiding his hands to brace themselves against the tiled walls as Dean's own played with the stiffer muscles of Sam's back and his furled, tight hole.

"Hold on, Sammy."

Sam ended up plastered against the wall, fingers clutching at the smooth tiles as Dean fucked into him from behind. Short, deep thrusts wrung whimpers from Sam while longer drags added groans to Dean's incessant gasping and grunting as he shifted Sam, spreading his legs wider or shoving his chest into coloured ceramic until Dean spent himself, gasping _"Sam,"_ as his hips jerked one last time. He buried his forehead into Sam's back, lips placing delicate kisses and nibbles all the way up to his neck as he palmed the skin that Sam's wings would fold out of.

"You've got wings, Sam," Dean murmured against Sam's neck. "What's keeping you here?"

_Please don't leave me._

Sam stared at the ceiling. "I'm not leaving the others behind."

That should have been his first clue.

* * *

There were two buckets of water hanging off the wooden beam Dumah bore on her shoulders, and they felt like the weight of the world on her bound back, especially after three flights of stairs. If she had been able to take out her wings, the job would have been done in less than twenty minutes; then again, if she'd had her wings, she'd be far, far away from Harpe. It was the little things, sometimes.

Dumah rounded a corner and walked straight into the broad chest of a taller man. The beam wobbled on her shoulders, but the man steadied it before the pails could fall off.

She looked up.

Sam was still pressed against her, holding the sagging pole. He took a cautionary step back and murmured, "Sorry." _Sorry for bumping into you. Sorry for not being able to save you._

Another servant walked past, quirking an eyebrow at them before he trotted down the stairs. Sam's hands slid down Dumah's body, and though she couldn't feel it or hear it, she knew he'd slipped a scrap of paper into her clothes. "No problem." _The water didn't fall. We're still getting out of here._

They walked away, neither looking back.

Later on that night, a plan began to bloom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly five thousand words with this update, guys. I'm going to sleep for a week.  
> Also, I told a friend of mine who also enjoys writing that I was working on a story (a.k.a this fic) and he asked what it was about and I had to reply, with a completely straight face, that it was a war/ fantasy project. Fuck me up.
> 
>  
> 
>  ~~Edit: I just wanted to change the pills to a drink. They have the same purpose; the only difference is their state of matter. This decision has come about because I only start writing a chapter after I've published the previous one, and I don't have a clear plotline. In short, I'm a terrible writer and continuity evades me.~~  
>  Edit: Nope. Sorry for messing things up, I had to hammer out a couple of things and I realized that pills are what I want to go with.  
> I'm sorry for anyone who finds this confusing :(


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

"Give me your wrists."

Awkward arms curled inwards. "Why?"

Dean sighed. Waves crashing down on the fragile sands of Sam's composure. "Because I told you to." Shoulders rolling. Warm hands on arms, flinching backwards. "Just do as I say."

Sam's head tilted, fox eyes narrowing atop gaunt cheekbones. "You- you won't hurt me." Sam sucked in air, hissed like it was ice-cold. "You _won't_." Asserting. Pleading.

Dean's grip tightened, like Sam voice was frost crackling over his arms. "I won't. But not because you ask me to." His soft smile seemed out of place in the room, so bright against the shroud of violence and unlawful submission over the bed, the washed-out not-there stain of Sam's blood on the carpet. Vanished. Forgotten.

Never forgiven.

"Now, Sam," Dean insisted, and Sam felt like crying. Screaming, resisting until his shoulders had Dean-shaped indents and his lips were bruised with words of refusal.

Bird-bone arms stuck out instead of a rebellious chin, chain swinging like a pendulum between them, counting out days of captivity. _Tick tock tick tock_ time was running out and Dean slid a key in each lock and tugged unforgiving metal off Sam and onto the floor. Twin thuds as it hit the plush carpet like  _drip drip_ sweat on cream ceramic.

"How do you feel?" Dean's cold, cold eyes boring into his own, demanding, always demanding, taking more than Sam had ever wanted to give. His hands glided down to Sam's wrists, thumbs rubbing gentle over barely-there veins and purple arteries and they were just another type of fetters. Freedom was one dagger and six ( _seven?_ ) deaths away.

"Better." Brittle voice, brittle words. Heavy, lying tongue chasing away the feeling of Dean's ( _chains_ ) hands.

"I have another gift for you," Dean continued. "There's a box, on the desk by the window." Another rotten-milk sweet smile. "Open it."

Iron fingers finally disbanded, wrists tingling. Nothing on them but for the air and still too much. Sam's feet moving mechanically, lid discarded and there was just another type of slavery inside.

Dean was a white-hot brand against his back, dreaded fingers curling around hips and a laugh tickling his nape. "Put them on."

Sam laughed, lemon-bitter. Dean was tearing him apart. "Why take them away only to give them back a seconds later? Most would have given me at least a few days before slapping them on again."

Dean's tongue clicked. Sam's hair stood up on end, Dean's electric-charged annoyance three words away from becoming crush-you beat-you love-you do-it-all-over-again anger. "It's not," Dean huffed. Frustration steamed on Sam's neck. "You're mine, Sam. And it's not about beating you, or causing you pain, it's about you belonging to me. And this is how I show it."

Sam snorted. Dean's hands clenched around his waist, too-tight and furious. " _Sam,_ " Dean snarled.

Sam dug into the box, pulled out handfuls of black leather. Metal buttons glinted, clacked when they snapped closed, cushioned material beneath the leather snug and warm. The ghost of Dean's touch, haunting, unshakeable. _You can't leave_.

Dean's hands shifted again, trailing over dark leather stark against once-tanned skin. They wrapped around Sam's forearms, fingertips pressing into the very edges of the cuffs. "Good boy, Sammy," Dean murmured. Emotion stained his teeth, his lips, Sam's shoulder where the words were kissed onto. "Take the last thing out too. It's important." Saccharine contentment drenched Sam, like bog mud.

Dean's last gift hung like a strip of oil from Sam's fingers. Shook, too, and neither said a thing, cold breaths and colder touches binding them together. Sam's nail scraped at the fine buckle, dug into forgiving material.

"Dean." Voice of glass shards, scraping his throat raw. Ears, too. "I can't- don't make me-"

Dean nipped Sam, teeth pulling at the tender skin over the knobs of his spine, jutting out like a fin on a shark. One hand crawled up, cupped Sam's throat and pressed, pressed, _shoved_ , breath coming in shorter wheezes now and Sam's cheeks were wet and salty. His hands rose, pulling at the buckle. So tired. So _weak_.

Dean's hands surged up too, undoing the buckle with ease and wrapping the collar around Sam's neck without further protests. Sam slumped, rag-doll body sagging against Dean's, and didn't say a thing.

Dean held Sam until the sun went down, dusk dying the room crimson and gold and catching Sam's tears like diamonds.

 

* * *

 

  
Sweet juice burst on Sam's tongue, cool and welcome. Grass tickled his feet, bare despite Dean's disapproving eyebrows and half-hidden sighs. A gentle breeze tugged at tufts of his hair, freeing chestnut strands from the leather strip that held them back from his face, dragging along birdsong and cricket's murmurs like offerings. Another grape, arch in the air and crushed in his mouth. This one tasted like freedom.

"They're good, aren't they?" Dean said, reaching for the wooden bowl propped between them. Caught Sam's wrist when he was too slow to move away, rubbing fingers over skin just as purple. Supple leather pressed down and then his touch vanished. Sam's next grape plucked from his grasp, gone only for it to press invitingly at his lips. Dean's green eyes wide open. Beseeching.

Sam leaned forward, carefully teased the grape from Dean's fingers with his teeth and chewed. Swallowed. Closed his eyes. Remembered.

"I've had better," Sam admitted. Strange, to give Dean another part of himself. The a sharp gust of wind prickled his skin through thick fur, setting off a chain of shivers which didn't stop until Dean curved an arm around hunched-over shoulders.

 _Breathe in._

Dean's arm fell back to his side, and took with it the sticky resin ( _won't say it's fear_ ) plugging Sam's throat. Sam reached up to touch the collar around his throat, pressed juice-smeared fingers into the not-space between skin and black material. Felt Dean do the same.

Sam shuddered. He didn't even try to pretend it was because of the cold.

Dean shook his head, drew away his frost-tip fingers. Sam could have cried.

Dean had a goblet in his hand, blackberry-purple wine sloughing into it from a lidded pitcher. He set it down once it was nearly full and rifled through his layers of cloaks. He produced a tiny pouch, black and embroidered with silver stitches. He poured a single, too-familiar speckled ball into his palm.

 _Breathe out._

"Not now," Sam wheezed. "Don't take this away from me too."

Dean dropped the pill in the cup, swirled it gently with one stiff pinky finger. He pressed the cup into Sam's unwilling hands, clamped them around ridged metal and pushed them towards pursed lips.

Sam jerked his head back. He could see the cup shaking in his hands and set it down, laced his fingers together beneath his knees. "I didn't know the pills dissolved." His stomach was lurching. Bile gurgled, threatened at his throat. _What if what if what if-_

"Now you do." _What if he drugs me and I don't even realize._ "Don't keep me waiting." _What if we're in the dining pavilion and everyone can see-_

"What goes into them?" Sam blurted out. "I have the right to know." He had to say anything, ask _anything_ before drowning himself in twilight wine and loose-limbed rape. Couldn't. _Stop. Stop this. You can't._

 _Don't tell me what I can and can't do. I own you._

 _Breathe in._

"What will you give me if I tell you?"

"I'll drink it," Sam babbled. "I will, I swear, but tell me-"

Dean grasped Sam's face, cupped it tenderly with one hand even as he tugged at the collar with the other. "Calm down," Dean ordered. "We can argue about this later." _Lies. Liar. In the end it's only you who'll choose_. Dean held up the cup and offered it to Sam once more.

Sam grabbed Dean's wrist. " _Tell me_ ," he said, desperately. It wasn't until later that he'd realized he'd snarled, his voice something, raw, violent. Scared.

Dean wrenched Sam's hair back, twisted until Sam hissed and dug his nails into Dean's wrist. Dean growled, knocked the wind out of him with a jolting shove.

 _Breathe out._

Dean finally pried Sam's hand off his own. He held it delicately, as if handling a rose petal. Gripped it tight, then, crushing, Sam's fingers twitching like a little sparrow's wings. Teeth grinding. Fire burning in his eyes.

Sam bit his lip. The grand canopy above them was framing Dean once again, slit light casting his countenance in gold. So beautiful. So cold.

So ugly, on the inside.

Sam took a deep breath. Made up his mind.

"If... if I do something," Sam said, resolve hardening, "Something- special, for you. Later. When we..." Bile stung his throat. His thoughts were just as acrid in his mind.

"Yes?" Above him, Dean's green eyes shone. Greedy. Teasing pieces of Sam out for himself.

 _What was left?_

Breathe in.

"You know." Sam swallowed. Ignored his throbbing head. "And in return, you'll tell me everything I want to know."

"I'll take you to the one who makes them," Dean offered.

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart." Green eyes flashed. "But don't test me," he warned. "I won't be taken for a fool."

"I know," Sam whispered.

 _Breathe out._

Dean grinned. Tongue flicking out. "It's a deal. How about we seal it in the traditional way, hmm?"

Sam took the cup. He raised it, sat up and stared at it while Dean fixated on him.

And drank.

By the time Dean kissed him, he was the king of the clouds. Buffeted by impossibly strong wings, surrounded by a white haze, lost in the blue.

Free.

 _Breathe._

* * *

Sam's eyes were heavy lidded, shuttering empty hazel. A collar Cas didn't recognize sat snug around his throat, twin to the cuffs on his wrists and ankles. A second necklace looped around Sam's neck, purple and fresh in the pattern of teeth and fingertips.

"My sister's getting married," Dean said. Castiel grit his teeth. He swept his broom again as if he had a personal vendetta against the dirt marring the stone floor, which at this point, he most certainly did. He moved on.

"Everyone's invited," Dean continued; a demon with a razor smile banged his fist against the table, shouted the customary "Here, here," along with similar remarks and cheers and pinched Castiel's ass. _Geoff_. Castiel closed his eyes. Gripped the broom, felt splinters digging into his palm. Let out a deep breath. Moved on.

More chatter. "It's not until after the Saint's day," Dean said, and one or two men groaned. 

"We've got to wait that long to get truly shitfaced?" He whined. _James_. Meg punched his shoulder.

"As if we weren't going to hit a tavern later," she growled, and James shrugged, a helpless grin in place.

Dean shook his head. "I'd expect nothing else," he said. Laughed. Twined his fingers in Sam's hair. "Just remember. And be there." He nodded. "Dismissed."

There was a rumble of scraping chairs and stomping feet, before Dean, sam and Castiel were the only ones in the room. Dean was staring at him.

Castiel swept.

Dean abruptly stood up, dragged Sam up with him. Castiel was once again a ghost as Dean walked out, barely soaring him a backwards glance.

Sam mouthed, 'A month', before Dean hooked two fingers beneath his collar and led him away.

Castiel moved on

* * *

Dean's breath steamed against Sam's throat, lips kiss-stained and cheeks candle-bright. "You promised me something," Dean panted fingers digging into Sam's chest, "but you've yet to deliver."

Sam nodded shakily. He regained his breath, steeled himself and sat up, fingers feather-light on Dean's shoulders. "Lie back down," he whispered in Dean's ear, and tried not to feel like a whore as Dean complied. _I have to know_.

Dean lay with his hands tucked beneath his head, his lips fashioned into a provocative smirk gaze dark. Sam crawled over him, nipping at Dean's neck before he settled back, straddled Dean's thighs. He gave himself a moment, convinced himself that the oil-slick stain plugging his heart was worth it and lifted himself up, guiding Dean's fattened cock towards his entrance. Dean caught his wrist.

"I said _special_ ," Dean reminded him warmly. "Never said you had to hurt yourself."

"I won't," Sam assured. "I... prepared myself," Sam explained, tripping over his words, "Earlier."

Dean's eyes lit up. "Good," he praised, went for Sam's lips but caught his jaw instead when Sam turned away, mouthed at it lazily. "Good boy."

With Dean's hands on his hips, he sank down on Dean's cock, eyes trained on the canopy, and not on Dean's glittering, triumphant eyes. He rolled his hips slightly, adjusting to Dean's girth. He dropped another inch and shuddered, palms spanning Dean's chest, curling his fingers when the pressure became _too much I can't do this-_

Sam was completely seated on Dean's dick, ass flush with his hips, burning thighs clamping down around Dean's torso. Everything hurt. "Move," Dean ordered gently, his voice downy-soft. Like the bitter stench of poison behind rich wine.

Sam rocked lightly. Dean hissed, grabbed his thigh and Sam whimpered, rose slightly only to fall back down. Rough fingers on his stomach. Sweat-slick hair clinging to his forehead. Repeat

"Good boy," Dean gasped. Teased at his nipples.

 _Shut up._ Sam whined, threw his head back. Eyes closed, but that only made the everything more intense, the fullness, the heat, Sam's anger, Dean's lust.

Sam's hardness.

Dean praised him and Sam rode harder, chasing away Dean's words and his own tears and wanting to smother Dean with a pillow. Dean called him beautiful and precious all the same, and Sam hated him, hated Dean's bucking hips, hated Dean's hand jerking his hair all the more for it. Thy rhythmic slide of skin against skin was a song Sam knew well, and he played it for Dean like a fool playing a fiddle.

After, when they were both splattered with come and sweat, Dean pulled him close and said, "You'll get your reward," and Sam let himself be kissed one last time.

* * *

"This is Kevin," Dean told Sam. "He'll answer your questions." With that, he turned to the young alchemist. "Answer truthfully," Dean said. "But keep him away from the deadlier ingredients. We wouldn't want any... _accidents_ happening."

Kevin nodded. "Of course, my lord."

Dean smiled, murmured, "Good," and left with a cautionary squeeze to Sam's shoulder.

And then Sam was alone. With _him_.

Sam had often thought of the person who had managed to cobble together his dreaded ( _beloved_ ) pills. Wisps of imagination, remnants from the turbulent feeling of coming down from his high, had crafted a mud-man of crooked yellow teeth and bulging rat's eyes, unconsciously wanting - _needing_ \- to make the one who brokered his consent as foul as Sam felt.

At first, he couldn't quite connect the loathed shadow that roamed his mind to the young man before him. His youth was surprising; the man ( _boy?_ ) likely hadn't seen more than twenty summers, but his smooth cheeks and slim figure were offset by the valley of his frown and the fire-spark of intelligence in his eyes. Kevin tilted his head back, scrutinizing, and _there;_ the wraith Sam had spun from the cobwebs of his mind snapped into reality, flickered for a second beneath Kevin's youthful visage.

Sam shook his head. He was projecting his hatred for Dean onto Kevin, like some fanciful child, and he dared not impose this sort of judgement on Kevin just yet; he needed him too much. For now.

"You're the one who makes those pills," Sam started; cut himself off. He'd been about to say ' _my_ pills'.

Kevin shrugged. His robes rippled with the movement, cloaking him in molten gray. Too much like some eldritch thing that Sam couldn't help but want to fear, and he searched Kevin's eyes again, seeking humanity. Compassion.

"I am," Kevin acknowledged finally. His frown had gained another crease. "And you're the one who takes them."

"Yes," Sam bit out, staring at his bare feet. The stone floor cut shards of cold into them, grounding him more than the pillow carpets in Dean's chambers and the hallways ever could. The entire room was odd; as if someone had shorn a clipping of a prestigious laboratory in one of the Citadels and sewn it into Harpe's keep. Sturdy wood and metal stands seemed to be encrusted into the walls, stock-piled with sealed jars and slim vials crammed in between them. A table sprawled along the center, laden with ink-smudged notes and glass equipment. "What are they made of?" He was close. He was so, so close.

Kevin grimaced. His eyes flicked to the shut door and back to Sam, uneasy. "I have a list of ingredients," Kevin said. His tone was oddly stilted. "I'll-I'll get that for you."

"You do that," Sam said quietly. Nodded. Kevin scurried over to a desk crammed up beneath a window and wrenched open the cupboard nestled beneath it, only to slam it shut and a play mechanic open-whirr-creak- _thump_ tune on the rest of the drawers. Sam resisted the urge to flinch.

Eventually, Kevin murmured, "Got it," and extracted a thick, leather-bound journal from a creaking drawer. He spread his palm flat over it, worrying his fingertips over the worn material. He flipped it open, traced his fingers over scribbled notations and instructions as he scoured the pages. Sam knew he'd found what he was looking for when he nodded and paused. He walked back to Sam and handed the journal to him.

"Here," Kevin said. His lip twitched downwards. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Sure," Sam murmured, already scanning the damning list. Uncertainty tugged at his mind, but he read on, eyes plucking out familiar names among obscure herbs and strange powders. A common aphrodisiac here, something mind-numbing there and Sam was all too ready to hate Kevin once more. Had this man - this _boy_ , perhaps still innocent, likely shielded from the horrors lurking like vultures around the world, really forged such a weapon? The pills - they transcended violence, ramshackle _barreled_ past it into Sam's withering psyche like daggers in his skull. If Dean was to be trusted, Kevin was merely a ward; a learning master flung to the four corners of the land by his patron in an effort to broaden his horizons. Fealty didn't bind him to Dean. Sam's eyes flicked to the left, drawn to a teetering stack of silver-green leaves. Endemic to Eden; Sam flashed back to his childhood self, to a younger angel who'd fingered the sturdy leaves and wondered how there could be people who lived their entire lives without seeing the seemingly ubiquitous trees, lovely in their simplicity. Kevin had undoubtably forayed into Eden during his travels.

Acrid hatred welled up in his stomach once again. Sam kept reading.

Scribbled underneath the main formula, two more components sprung up like afterthoughts. Sam's heart crawled up his throat, flocked by a jittery cavalry of bile and swarm of nausea.

Kevin was droop-huddled over his project, utterly absorbed, when he heard Sam breathe in sharply a muffled 'thump. He whipped around, found Sam pale as death and his journal on the table, leather-up like a page flourish. H rushed over to the angel. Squeezed his arm. "Sam? Are you alright?"

Sam's hands were flutter-shaking as he swallowed convulsively, forefinger prying at his collar and wedging itself in. The movement seemed almost unconscious. Eyes glazed, mouth open. "Why is Dean's blood one of the ingredients?" Blurted, and autumn's fire crackling in hazel irises. Kevin retracted his arm.

Kevin's hunch-back shoulders sagged. He... he looked ashamed, and through woolly panic, Sam felt sick-sweet satisfaction. _Good_ , he thought savagely. _You should be drowning in guilt._

 _Monster._

 _Made me one, too._

"It was his last requirement," Kevin whispered. His words were precious stones, too valuable to be held in the light where anyone could snatch them off his lips and make them their own. Kevin's mouth thinned. "The components he added, they have more to do with magic than alchemy - facts. I don't like it."

 _I don't either_ , Sam thought. "I see," he said instead. He gently picked the journal up, ran a finger down its spine like an apology and set it down, snapped shut. h said, "I'd like to ask for a favour." _Kill me._

"Sam..." Kevin sighed. "If this is about the pills..." _Or maybe yourself._

"No." He laughed, sulfur-sour. "When I was younger, I dreamed of becoming a learned man, like you. An alchemist, maybe." Sam paused. Sneered. Kevin tried to convince himself it wasn't for him.

"But you didn't?"

"No, I... I was drafted. I had to fight for my country." Sam shook his head. "But I'm not fighting anymore. I might never leave this castle again, and I'd like to do something productive." Sam took in a deep breath. "If it's alright with you, I'd like to learn more. I'd like to be... your apprentice, maybe. I pick things up quickly, and I could help you with anything."

Kevin looked doubtful. "I'm not sure if-"

"Master Kevin," Sam interrupted. "It would mean a lot to me if you would allow me to spend time here." _Instead of outside. With Dean. On my knees._ It went unsaid.

"I'd have to ask Lord Dean," Kevin acquiesced softly. His words were sea salt in a bloody wound. "But it's fine by me."

"Thank you."

And, later; "You want to learn alchemy?"

Sam nodded. Licked his chapped lips, sought out moisture inside his own mouth.

Dean's eyes narrowed, slit-thin. "No tricks," he warned. "You do anything - and I mean anything - that may harm me or the people in this Keep and it will be coming out on your skin. Understood?"

"Yes," Sam agreed evenly. His heart was pounding.

"And Kevin," Dean added. "He's your responsibility now, too. I'll repeat this just in case; keep him away from any ingredients that could cause... accidents. And they would be accidents, wouldn't they?" Dean grabbed Sam's hair hand hip, yanked him closer. " _You won't hurt me._ "

Sam stared. "I won't." The words stung his tongue, deceit-bitter.

"Good." Dean grinned. Stroked Sam's cheek. "Thank me, Sam."

Sam fell to his knees.

* * *

Bits and pieces of conversation, strung together like pages out of a broken book.

"-Dean's sister marrying-"

"-three weeks-"

"-all of them in the mess hall-"

"-key opportunity-"

Sam toyed with the tiny vial in his hand. "in Cavum, it's customary for everyone to drink a final toast before the consummation. A casket is reserved and opened specifically for it. To not drink would be considered a huge sign of disrespect. Here, it's like saying 'I hope your marriage fails'."

"You certainly know a lot about this," Ariel murmured. Sam barely heard her.

Sam help up the bottle. "I've been spending time with the alchemist, and I've managed to prepare this. It will put anyone to sleep in a matter of seconds."

"And diluted?" Leon asked, his deep cadence somehow softer in the muted shadows of the stone dungeon.

"Minutes," Sam replied. Leon nodded. Ramiel smiled.

"Of course, I'll have to prepare more if we want everyone down," Sam continued. "It's a potent sedative, but there well be two hundred people there."

"It's a shame we can't just poison them all," Dumah interjected softly. Ariel hummed.

Sam shook his head. "I tried. Kevin - the master - he has everything dangerous locked away, and as soon as he sees me mixing something stronger than this, he has the guards outside his door take me back to- to Dean's chambers." Sam hoped no one noticed what he almost let slip. His hatred _burned_ , singed him, too; he was becoming complacent. "This is the best I can do."

Ariel scoffed. She kicked herself off the wall and raised her eyebrows at Sam. "What I don't understand," Ariel said, "is why you're doing this. How does it benefit you?"

Sam faltered. "What are you talking about?"

"It's no secret that you're his pet," Ariel spat. "You probably roll over for him without a fight by now, don't you?"

Sam's face was bone-white, drawn and horrified. "How can you s-"

"Does he even ask anymore? I bet he just whips his dick out, and you bend over like a two-penny whore." She sneered. "How well trained are you, Sam? Oh, wait." Her laugh fell on him like a spray of acid. "He calls you _Sammy_."

" _Ariel_ ," Castiel chastised. Leon glared at her, too. "This has been as hard on him as it has been on any of us. We would not be where we are now without his help."

"Hard on him, Cas?" A hysterical giggle bubbled up her throat. She held up the mutilated stump of her right arm. "They took my hand," she hissed, "for daring to eat. _He_ ," she pointed at Sam, "Lies around all day like a pretty picture and sucks that monster's cock. He _serves_ them!"

"No," Sam said quietly. There was something scarred in his eyes; something _broken_. "I've done things I'm not proud of. I won't deny that. But I do _not_ serve them."

Ariel sneered. "Liar. _Traitor_." She spat at him. It landed in front of his feet, spritzed his toes.

And with that, she left.

"We have to stick together," Ramiel insisted later on. They were chained, back to back, in a the same muggy cell they'd been sleeping in for months.

Ariel said nothing.

 

* * *

_Poison_ Dreams

 _Don't touch me_ I need you

 _Submission_ Devotion

 _I stand up_ And I still rule

* * *

"He wasn't bluffing."

"What?" Sam paused. Leaned back from the shelf, jars crammed in his arms.

"Lord Winchester. Dean. He'd have my head if anything..." Kevin trailed off.

Sam met his eyes. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I am really, really sorry this took so long. In between exams, personal life, and overall feeling like the dwarf Sleepy all the damn time, I've barely had time to work on this up until a few weeks ago. Then, procrastination took over. I'm sorry.  
> 2) The plot!!! is advancing!!! I wouldn't say thickening, but, like, it's making some progress, right?  
> I need validation oml  
> 3) Anyway, you got to see the rest of the angels. Sort of. What did you think?  
> 4) Thoughts on Sam and his character?  
> 5) I feel like my writing style has changed. Also, some parts are better written than others. *shrug*
> 
> Please let me know what you thought in the comments!! And of any mistakes I made!!


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